The Pretty Women in the Pumpkin Patch
by K. Elisabeth
Summary: As Halloween approaches, Booth and Brennan are on the case of several women found dead in a pumpkin patch. But when the case takes a personal turn, Brennan is on the receiving end of a few spooky 'tricks'... will everyone make it to All Saint's Day alive?
1. Face Down in the Dirt

**A/N:** I'm baaaack! -cackle-

I love Halloween. I really do. Scary movies and gross decorations and costumes and free candy... it's like my own twisted childhood can live on one night a year forever. :) It's also the kick-off to the holiday season that starts on Halloween and takes us through the winter. My family is big on holidays; it's the one time of the year when we're all constantly together, so it's a lot of fun.

Anyway. A few days before I finished up _The Foster Child in the Forensic Anthropologist_, I got the inspiration to write this fic. Something about walking back home under the full moon, thinking about the upcoming holiday... it got my muse in a great spooky mood. :) The first chapter is of medium length and mostly fun; the spook comes later. I wanted to get this chapter finished and posted a few days ago, but I came down with some nasty sickness and have been bed-ridden for the past two days. Now I am sitting up, eating real food, and itching to get some fanfic written and posted. So here it is!

By the way, this chapter, more specifically Pete, is dedicated to Melissa (goldpiece). :)

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**Disclaimer:** Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's -- I own nothing. I just play with it.

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"Geez, they weren't kidding when they said it was out here," Booth said, pausing on the steep Virginia hillside to catch his breath. Brennan strode past him up the narrow dirt path that wound up the hill, littered with leaves awash in fall color. She turned to face him, smiling.

"Don't tell me you're winded," she said, arms akimbo. Booth shook his head and picked up his feet again, catching up to her and matching her stride as they neared the peak of the hill.

"I'm not winded," he said. "It's just, you know, a big hill."

"Right," Brennan said, raising her brows. Booth opened his mouth to retaliate, when they reached the top of the hill. They both took pause, observing the scene.

Large orange growths protruded from the parched autumn field, almost unnaturally bright and saturated in color, spanning from halfway down the slope in front of them, across the valley, and partway up the next hill. They were scattered haphazardly, not in neat rows as corn might be, gnarled roots threatening to trip passers-by. Near the left edge of the field an area was sectioned off with bright yellow tape, uniformed men buzzing around like flies, marking the scene. Everything lay beneath a high, blue October sky; the kind of clear, crisp fall day that came before the clouds and sleet of early winter.

"Pretty day, huh?" a voice said from behind them. Booth and Brennan turned around to see a short man with a kind face in a faded uniform walking towards them, holding up his badge. "Officer John Batey, county sheriff. You must be the FBI agent and… his liaison?" the sheriff said, holding his hand out to each in turn. Booth laughed.

"If anyone's the liaison, it's me," he said as they carefully negotiated the path into the pumpkin patch, trying not to slip on loose patches of dirt and rock as they went. "Special Agent Seeley Booth, this is my partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan."

"Doctor, huh?" the sheriff said, tipping his hat. "I apologize for the liaison comment, then. No offense implied."

"None taken," Brennan said, enjoying the man's geniality. Of all the cultures in the world she had done ethnographical research on, there was something about the people of the rural American south she found refreshingly honest.

"The remains are this way," Officer Batey said, stepping over clusters of pumpkins and navigating through tangles of roots and weeds as they neared the crime scene.

"Kind of a large crime scene," Booth commented, noticing how large the taped-off area was.

"Kind of a large crime," Officer Batey responded. "In the last hour your people have found two more skeletons. They're still looking." Booth whistled.

"Three bodies? What is this place, a dumping ground?"

"Looks like it," Officer Batey said grimly, stepping over the tape and motioning towards an area cleared of pumpkins. In the grass lay a jumble of scattered human bones, partially fleshed, mostly rotten. Brennan snapped on her gloves and dug into the remains, picking up the first skull carefully and holding it against the autumn sky.

"Female," she said, eyeing the features as she turned it. "Mid twenties, probably. Judging from the racial indicators, Caucasian."

"Not surprising," Batey said, trying to look anywhere but at the skull itself.

"Why do you say that?" Booth asked. Batey shrugged.

"Not much else around these parts," he said. "Kimball's the closest town to here, 'bout five miles west. Can't be more than two thousand people there. Can't be more than five or ten of 'em that's not white."

"Welcome to Small Town, USA," Booth said, watching Brennan sift through more bones.

"This one," Brennan said, setting the first skull gingerly on the ground and holding up the second one, "also appears to be female, around the same age, with the same racial markers. So is that one." She pointed to another skull about five yards away.

"She's good, huh?" Batey said, watching with interest as Brennan made preliminary groupings of the remains that appeared to belong together.

"Yeah, she is," Booth said proudly. "The best."

"It's hard to say with absolute accuracy how long the remains have been here," Brennan said as she began to bag the body parts. "The remains appear to have been scavenged, and strewn across the area. Hodgins can tell us how long they've been dead, and Cam's DNA markers will tell us for certain which bones belong together. We can finish bagging the remains as soon as we find the fourth body."

"Wait, what?" Batey said, furrowing his brows. "Fourth body? We only found three skulls."

"And I found four of these," Brennan said, holding up a small bone.

"What's that?" Booth asked.

"Proximal phalange of the third finger, right hand," she replied, bagging the bone. "Unless one of our victims had two right hands, there's a fourth victim." Booth and Batey's mouths fell into identical 'O' shapes.

"She's really good," Batey commented under his breath to Booth. "Let's find that fourth body, then." The three wandered off in opposite directions, stepping carefully and scanning the ground for clues.

"Found it!" an FBI tech shouted several minutes later, holding a fourth half-rotten skull into the air.

"What are you doing? Why are you handling my skull? You're disturbing evidence," Brennan shouted, tearing off through the pumpkin patch in his direction. Booth heard chuckling behind him, and turned to see Batey with his hands in his pockets, shaking his head, chest bouncing with laughter.

"She's just a regular firecracker, isn't she?" Batey said, following Booth as they headed towards the fourth set of remains. Booth rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, a regular black cat," he replied, putting his hands on Brennan's shoulders as she verbally assaulted the FBI tech who had dared lay hands on her remains.

"Relax, killer," Booth said, steering her away from the frightened young man. "Your skull's fine. Another white female?"

"Yes," Brennan said grouchily. "Late teens to early twenties, female, probably Caucasian as well."

"Great," Booth said. "Let's gather all of this stuff up and get back to the lab, before you deck someone. Officer Batey, do you mind keeping an eye on things here while we go talk to the farmer who owns the pumpkin patch?"

"By all means, go on ahead," Batey said, waving them off. "I'll let y'all know when everything's done and ready."

"Thanks," Booth said, putting his hand on the small of Brennan's back and leading her away from the shaken FBI techs who eyed her warily as she went.

The couple hiked back up the hill, then down its other side, back to the farmhouse that sat at its base. A wiry, leather-skinned man sat on the back porch, watching them as they approached. He tipped his hat when they reached the steps of the porch, lifting himself out of his chair and offering them a hand.

"Name's Pete," he said sloppily, his words a southern jumble of Virginia hills variety. "Y'alls gotsa be'm folks from'um Ef-bee-eye, huh?" He spoke in a way that was both very drawn out, and very squashed together. Booth opened his mouth to speak, then set his jaw slightly askew out of sheer puzzlement.

"I'm sorry?" he said.

"Y'all's'm polees?" Pete repeated, in what Booth suspected was a slightly clearer variation of what he had said previously, but was just as unintelligible.

"My name is Special Agent Seeley Booth," Booth said in a slow and well-articulated manner that suggested he was speaking to someone with limited English skills. Brennan snorted, and Pete gave the agent a wry smile.

"Y'all ain' frum'uround here, huh?" he said. Booth continued to give him the same completely uncomprehending look, and Brennan stepped in to rescue him from his own ignorance.

"No, we're not, we're from D.C.," she said. "I'm Dr. Brennan, I'm a forensic anthropologist."

"A for-husin-what?" Pete said, scrunching his brows.

"I look at dead people's bones," she clarified, and he nodded in understanding.

"Well why aincha jus'ay that?" Pete said, shaking his head.

"Can I talk to you for a second? Excuse us," Booth said, stepping a few yards away with Brennan and leaning in towards her.

"I can't understand a word he's saying," Booth whispered. "Is he speaking English?"

"Of course he's speaking English," Brennan said, stifling laughter. "The people of the Virginia foothills speak a particular brand of the American Southern dialect, a very interesting result of the geographical barriers during the—"

"That's great," Booth said, cutting her off. "But how am I supposed to conduct an investigation when I need a translator just to talk to these people?"

"Well that's what I'm here for," Brennan said. "To make up for your shortcomings."

"Shortcomings?" Booth said as Brennan turned back towards the farmer, who watched the pair amusedly. "I don't have shortcomings!"

"Short-comin's, huh? Soun's like a personal prob'm t'me," Pete said, flashing them a dirty post-fence smile and shaking his head. Booth sighed heavily.

"Sir, I need you to tell me how and when exactly you found the remains in your pumpkin patch," Booth asked. Pete thought for a decent thirty seconds before answering, which in and of itself aggravated Booth. In the city, everything got done fast—you talked fast, you walked fast, you drove fast or you got run over. No waiting around. Out here, people did everything in slow motion. He could watch the pumpkins grow while he waited for a response.

"Well, I reckon's 'bout ni'on five or six in th'mornin'. I been up feedin'm chickens an' pigs'n such an' thought to check'm pun'kins, make sure none of'm rotten out'r nothin', with it bein' 'bout that time'a year," he explained, in a slow, rambling manner that made Booth want to pull his ears off. "I ain' been out in'm in a coon's age'n so I warn't s'pectin'm all nice, but shee-oot, when I saw'm bones out there, if'n I's a dog you could'a run me right off'a meat wagon!" Booth stared blankly at the man, while Brennan nodded in comprehension.

"Oh-kay," Booth said slowly, nodding his head. "I think I'm going to have you write down your statement, how's that?" Pete shrugged, and Booth shook his head, retrieving a pad of paper and a pen from the SUV. As the man scrawled his story on the paper, Brennan gave Booth a superior look.

"You know, with as much experience as you have dealing with people from so many walks of life, it surprises me that you can't understand him," she said. Booth set his jaw.

"I'm sorry I don't speak Hillbilly as a second language," he said. "Where I come from, everyone's real easy to understand, and if they aren't clear enough, they've got a whole variety of hand gestures they can use to get the point across." Pete approached the pair with his written statement, and Booth thanked him for it. Not long after, Officer Batey came strolling down the hill towards them, hands in his pockets.

"We got everything bagged up," he told them when he approached, wind threatening to blow the hat off of his head. "The truck is taking it to your lab, so unless there's something else you guys need…"

"No, that should be it for now, thanks," Booth said, shaking hands with the officer, who tipped his hat to them before he drove off in his dusty squad car. Booth and Brennan loaded into the SUV, Booth shaking his head and grumbling.

"Great, let's go," he said, revving up the engine. "Back to the lab, with more people I can't understand."

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**A/N:** Yes, I am a southerner, and yes, some people really _do_ talk like that down here. We Southerners have a very colorful means of decorating our language. :) If Pete's dialogue was difficult to understand, then congratulations, you're in the same boat as almost everyone else! I tried to make it true to form without being too over the top grammatically. And no, my own accent is not _that_ horrible. It's quite intelligible, albeit a little flavorful at times. One of my good friends who is from Miami loves to make fun of my use of the phrase "fixin' to". As in, "I'm fixin' to go down to the store." That and the phrase, "might should", as in, "Y'all might should start working on that." Apparently those are strange, but I wasn't aware until she pointed it out to me!

Anyway, Southernisms aside... what are your thoughts? Good start? Intriguing? Not enough of a hook? Plain ol' boring? Leave a review and let me know!


	2. Through the Walls Our Daughters Cry

**A/N:** Well shucks, I'm plumb tickled that so many of y'all are followin' the story. :) All Southern fun aside though, I really am excited to see so many loyal readers from _Foster Child_ putting this story on alert too! I hope you guys like this one as much as the last one... I will try not to disappoint. With that said, this chapter isn't very long, and it's mostly procedural stuff. I tried to throw in some fun too, though, to keep it paletable. Having said that... enjoy!

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The next day was equally as beautiful as Seeley Booth pulled his SUV into the Jeffersonian's staff parking garage. He watched the sun disappear as he sank farther into the twisting depths of the garage, and his thoughts drifted to Brennan. He vaguely remembered the absolute, inconsolable devastation that had overcome him that afternoon when he first heard the Gravedigger's message—that she had twelve hours to live, and Hodgins too. He had been less concerned about Hodgins.

While it was impossible to ever relive those emotions, he felt the discontented sensation wash over him as he passed by the place where Hodgins's blood had been splattered on the asphalt; where they had found the chipped-off car decal from Gravedigger's car. Maybe, Booth thought to himself as the elevator doors shut behind him, he would go back into that case file and look over the clues again. There must have been something more.

"So, what have we got?" Booth asked as he stepped up to the catwalk, putting his hand on Brennan's shoulder. She gave him a peculiar look and he removed it, wiping his palm on his pants as if he had touched something wet.

"Well, Angela is still matching dentals, but all four bodies are female, late teens to early twenties," Brennan said, looking over her clipboard at the tables, lined in two rows of two, head-to-toe with each other. Each of the skeletons was complete—they were lucky to have avoided major damage from animals or the elements.

"The only animal-related damage to the skeletons appeared to be some scavenging by birds and small carnivores, maybe foxes or possums," Brennan continued, verbalizing her thoughts. "The skeletons are all complete, but in more pieces than I would like. I'll be able to make a better assessment of the trauma once my assistant cleans the bones."

"Your assistant? Who is it this week?" Booth asked, and Brennan shrugged.

"I don't know," she said vaguely. "I don't know his name."

"Oh. Is he any good?" Booth asked, and again Brennan shrugged, squinting down at one of the skeleton's wrist bones.

"I don't know," she repeated. "I haven't had much of a chance to work with him."

"Okay," Booth said slowly. "Where is he now?"

"I don't know," Brennan repeated for a third time, this time her voice slightly edgy.

"Well, what do you know?" Booth asked, and Brennan straightened up, putting a hand on her hip and staring him down.

"What are you being so snippy for?" she asked, and Booth put his hands on his hips, mimicking her action.

"Well gee, _I don't know_," he said, and as Brennan opened her mouth to no doubt fire a snide remark at him, Angela swiped her card and joined them.

"Alright, turtle doves," she said impishly, laying a file of papers on a stainless steel table. "I matched three of our victims' dentals to the database, but it wasn't easy. Number one here—" she pointed to the first skeleton "—had a bottom jaw that was in six pieces, which was fun to reconstruct. She's Elaine Blackwood. Number two was missing most of her front teeth, they're probably still out in that pumpkin patch. But I checked for matches on her sinuses—"

"Her what?" Hodgins asked, approaching the catwalk with a stack of papers. The animosity between them seemed to have been long forgotten, and she rolled her eyes playfully at him.

"Sinuses, dirt boy. Human sinus cavities are as unique as fingerprints. Anyway, I matched her by her sinuses—she had a cat scan of her head taken two years ago. Her name is Jennifer Allard."

"So it looks like someone's been bashing girl's faces in," Booth said grimly. Angela shook her head.

"No, three and four's skulls were completely intact. Three came up quick as being Laura Banes. No match on number four, though."

"That makes sense," Brennan said, looking at the teeth inside of number four's skull. "I wouldn't say definitively without an x-ray of the teeth, but it doesn't appear that she has ever had any dental work done. Not even so much as a filling."

"No dentist, no dentals," Booth said, tossing a coin up and snatching it out of the air, repocketing it. "Alright, well we've got three positive ID's, that's good. What do we know about our girls so far?"

"Well," Angela said, pulling out another sheet of paper. "Number one, Elaine Blackwood, was twenty years old. She was a sophomore at Marymount University in Arlington, and she swam on their swim team. She was reported missing three weeks ago by her parents when she didn't come home for the weekend like she had planned. Interestingly, she was five foot, nine inches."

"Why is that interesting? She was tall," Booth said. Angela held up a finger.

"Wait for it," she said, continuing. "Number two, Jennifer Allard, was eighteen. She was a freshman at Virginia Commonwealth, didn't play any sports but dabbled in modeling throughout high school. This is her." Angela held out a photograph, which Booth took. The girl in the picture was stunning—long blonde hair wound into tight curls, round brown eyes and a row of very white, very straight teeth. Teeth that were presently lying in a pumpkin patch. He felt his stomach flop, and gave the photograph back to Angela.

"She was reported missing three weeks ago also, out of Richmond," Angela pressed on. "She was five feet, eleven inches."

"Tall girl," Hodgins noted. Angela nodded.

"It gets better," she said. "Number three, Laura Banes, age twenty. A sophomore, also went to Virginia Commonwealth. She was a member of VCU's student government, and part of the Pre-Law society. Reported missing a week ago. She was five feet, nine inches."

"That is interesting," Brennan said, seeing the pattern. Angela nodded.

"While we don't have a positive ID on the fourth victim, I can estimate that she probably stood between five feet, eight inches, and five feet, ten inches," Brennan said, eyeing the unidentified skeleton.

"Another tall girl," Booth said, his brows furrowed. "So what's our connection between the crimes, they're all tall?"

"So far," Angela said. "They were also all very pretty." She withdrew from the folder a handful of photographs downloaded from the missing persons system and laid them out on the steel table—all three, as Angela had said, were very pretty young women. Jennifer, the blonde model, was accompanied by Elaine, a befreckled redhead with a sweet smile, and Laura, whose short brown bob did not betray her very feminine features. Booth chewed on the inside of his cheek, gears turning inside of his head.

"Was there any sign of sexual assault?" he asked. As if to answer his question, Cam entered the room, carrying nothing in her hands.

"No sign of assault," she said loudly, joining the growing crowd atop the catwalk. "Sexual, I mean. Somebody beat these girls up, but whoever they were, they didn't rape them. No semen, no saliva, nothing."

"Well that blows my bind-rape-and-kill theory," Booth said grouchily, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Brennan made a disagreeable noise, and he looked up. She was still eyeing the wrist of one of the skeletons, now revealed to be Laura Banes.

"I wouldn't throw out the binding part, anyway," she said. "I've been looking at their wrists, and they all show the same damage to the outer ulna and radius, and the carpal bones. The damage is consistent with trying to escape tight bindings."

"I'll take a sample of the flesh from the area, see if I can't identify what material was used to bind their wrists," Hodgins said. "Speaking of identifying material, from the samples I took earlier it looks like all of the bodies were carried inside the trunk of the same car from wherever they were killed, to the place they were dumped. That at least ties them all to the same killer. Sorry, bad word choice."

"You know, they say puns are subconsciously thought out linguistic patterns created by the brain," Angela piped in. "Not accidental at all."

"Thank you, Angepedia," Hodgins said with a wry smile. Angela grinned back. Cam coughed loudly.

"Great," she said. "While Hodgins takes those samples, I'm going to run tox screens on our ladies and see if they were into anything on the nights they were murdered. Two were reported missing three weeks ago, one of them a week ago. What about our unidentified fourth body? Hodgins, how's that coming along?"

"I'm still hatching pupae," he said. "Once they hatch, which should be later tonight or tomorrow morning, I'll know exactly how long each of them has been dead."

"Great," Cam said. "Booth, what about you and Dr. Brennan?"

"Well, we'll go on what we've got. First off, we have to tell the victim's families. Ready, Bones?" he said, and she nodded.

"Sure, I wouldn't want you to get caught without a translator," she said, to which he replied with a short grunt of disproval.

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "Yeehaw, giddy-up, whatever. Let's go."

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**A/N:** Like I said... not a biggie, just some stuff to keep in mind as the story progresses. So what are your thoughts so far, on the case and on the fic in general? I've got a week before Halloween, and while I know I won't be anywhere near finished with it by then, I'm hoping to get some of the spooktacular stuff in by that point. So, love it or hate it... please review it. :) And PS... there is a particular reason I mentioned the Gravedigger at the beginning of this chapter. Any guesses?


	3. I Am No Prophet of Doom

**A/N:** Sorry this chapter took a little while to post. I wanted to get it finished and up yesterday, but yesterday morning all of the heat AND the hot water went out in my building, so I was a little preoccupied with being an ice cube. It would be the night that we set a new record low that the heat goes out! Anyway, both are fixed now so I am toasty warm and good to go. This chapter is closer in length to the chapters I regularly write... the first two were a little short. And it has a little B/B fun to boot! Also, one of you was right in your assumptions as to why I mentioned the Gravedigger in the previous chapter... but of course I'm not saying which one it was. ;)

By the way, this chapter is dedicated to anybody who has ever had to deal with any sort of bureaucratic crap. You'll see why. With that said... enjoy!

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"Laney? My little Laney is…" Elaine Blackwood's mother trailed off, unable to finish her sentence. _Dead._ Booth reached a hand out and touched Mrs. Blackwood's forearm, nodding grimly.

"We positively identified her through her dental records," he said. "We are quite sure the victim is your daughter Elaine." Brennan turned away, shifting her focus to the branches outside of the window. She had never been very comfortable with displays of strong emotion, and no matter how many times she accompanied Booth on these trips, she never quite got used to it. Instead, she watched as a few stubborn leaves, all a uniform shade of veiny scarlet, clung desperately to a brittle tree limb. The wind tore at them and, finally giving up, they were released into the wind—bright flashes of red against a slate grey sky.

"Mrs. Blackwood," Booth began, trying to wheedle information out of the woman who he had just traumatized with the news of her child's death. "I was wondering if you could give us any information about Elaine, anything that might be pertinent."

"Like what?" the woman asked, sniffling.

"Like if she had a boyfriend, who her friends were, if she had a job as well as school…" Booth ticked off, and the woman nodded, understanding.

"If Laney had a boyfriend, I didn't know about it," her mother said. "She was a pretty girl, but she never had that gaggle of boys like other girls did. She was so smart, I think it intimidated them."

"Yeah," Brennan said, knowing full well what she meant. It was not always easy being intelligent, especially not in a world filled with so many stupid people.

"Laney had a lot of friends, but I couldn't list them all for you," Mrs. Blackwood said. "Maybe you could ask her roommate. She would know better than I who Laney hung out with."

"What was her roommate's name?" Booth asked.

"Penelope Gartner," Mrs. Blackwood replied. "Penny."

"That's great, Mrs. Blackwood, thank you," Booth said. "Now, is there anything else big or important that was going on in Elaine's life that you can think of?" The woman thought about the question for a while, then sat up in her seat.

"Well," she started. "Laney was about to finish off her A.A. degree this fall. She was meeting with a counselor at another school, getting all of her papers ready to file for transfer."

"Why was she transferring schools?" Booth asked. Mrs. Blackwood shrugged.

"We weren't really sure," she admitted. "We thought Marymount was a good school, but Laney said she thought the programs at Commonwealth would be better suited to her interests."

"Commonwealth? As in, Virginia Commonwealth?" Booth asked. Brennan perked; she could see the connection just as quickly as Booth had. Mrs. Blackwood nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "Virginia Commonwealth University. VCU. If everything went through smoothly—and it should have, Laney was a straight-A student—she would have started there in the spring."

"Do you know the name of the counselor your daughter was meeting with?" Booth asked. The woman shrugged again.

"Can't say that I do," she said. "I wasn't one of those, you know—" she twirled her finger in the air over her head. "—helicopter parents. I tried to give Laney her space. After all, she's twenty years old… hardly a little girl anymore." Booth nodded, snapping his notebook shut and rising from his seat.

"Alright, thank you very much Mrs. Blackwood, you've been a lot of help," he said, Brennan mimicking his action. Mrs. Blackwood nodded, dabbing at her eyes, and Booth put his hand on her shoulder.

"Again, truly sorry for your loss," he said, and with that they left. Once they got into the elevator at the end of the hall, they began sifting through the possibilities.

"Do you think the school has something to do with the murders?" Brennan asked as the elevator doors shut behind them. Booth shrugged.

"It's definitely a possibility. Although I don't know why Elaine would meet with a counselor from a school she hadn't even transferred to yet," he said, chewing on the inside of his mouth.

"Well, we'll have to ask her then, won't we?" Brennan asked. Booth nodded.

"That's the plan," he said. After a few moments, he added, "You know, she sounds a lot like you."

"The mother?" Brennan asked. Booth shook his head.

"The victim," he said. "Straight-A student, totally devoted to her studies, super intelligent…"

"… socially awkward, no life outside of school…" Brennan added to the list.

"… incredibly beautiful," Booth added, and suddenly stopped. Brennan looked up at him, and his breath caught in his chest. _Crap_.

"I mean, you know, uh…" he stumbled.

"Yeah, er, she was," Brennan quickly recovered. "Elaine was very beautiful."

"Yeah," Booth said quickly. "And uh… yeah, there's that common factor of… yeah."

"Right," she said, feeling a flush creep up her neck. It was no news that Booth thought she was attractive; objectively, she was a very good looking individual. But there was a difference between "sexy scientist" and "incredibly beautiful," especially coming from his mouth. They stared awkwardly at their shoes until the elevator doors opened, then heightened the sexual tension when they both bolted for the open door at the same time, bumping into each other.

"Woah," he said, grabbing her upper arm to steady her. He quickly removed his hand.

"Er, sorry," she said. He stepped back and let her pass, resisting the urge to place his hand on the small of her back like he usually would if he weren't thinking about the implications of his actions. They wordlessly loaded into the SUV, and after several minutes of riding with the radio turned up loudly enough to inhibit uncomfortable interactions, the tension between them eased.

"So now we go talk to the old roommate?" Brennan asked. Booth shook his head.

"First I want to talk to that VCU counselor," he said.

"Why?" she asked. The roommate seemed, to her, like a much more viable option.

"I don't know, just a hunch," he said, programming the GPS to take them to the heart of the Virginia Commonwealth campus. Brennan shrugged, leaning back into her seat; of the two of them, Booth was the much more "hunch" inclined, and given his past accuracy, she was not one to argue with those feelings. They followed his hunch into Richmond, navigating the city until they came to the college campus.

"Big campus," Brennan noted as they headed towards the hall that housed student academic advising.

"This is only one of them," Booth said. "There's two campuses downtown. It's the biggest university in Virginia."

"Impressive," Brennan said. They wandered around campus under the dreary, wet sky until they found the student advising center. They entered the large brick building, which was teeming with impatient students languishing in waiting room chairs. Some of them appeared to have been camped out in the room for a considerable period of time, surrounded by snacks, laptops, and engulfed in oversized logo hoodies and sweatpants. Booth approached the lone receptionist behind the main desk, who smacked her gum loudly and was engrossed in a webpage that was most certainly not work-related.

"Excuse me," Booth said. The receptionist ignored him. He tried again.

"I said, excuse me," he repeated, loudly. She looked up, unimpressed, and cracked her gum like bubble wrap between her top and bottom molars.

"Yeah?" she said. Booth gritted his teeth.

"I need some information about a student pending transfer to the university," Booth said. The girl shook her head.

"You gotta go through admissions for that, if she ain't a student here already then we ain't got her on file in this building," the receptionist said.

"But she met with one of your academic counselors," Booth insisted. The girl shook her head.

"Don't matter," she said. "If she wasn't a student yet, you gotta go through admissions. Sorry."

"Fine," Booth said through gritted teeth. "Let's go to admissions." He and Brennan browsed through the pamphlets and catalogues on display on the far edges of the main counter until they found a campus map, and located the admissions building. They crossed the expansive campus, holding their jackets close against the biting October winds, squinting against the cold. When they reached admissions they found a young girl behind the receptionist's counter, her back towards them. They could see that she was viewing an album of pictures on a social networking site, and from the way her head bopped, she likely had earbuds in. Brennan reached across the desk and tapped the girl's shoulder, and she jumped.

"Oh, hey, sorry about that," the receptionist said, removing the earbuds and minimizing the screen. "We don't get many people through here this time of the year. What's up?" Brennan eyed the girl scrutinizingly—she might have, at the very oldest, been eighteen or nineteen.

"We need some information about a student pending transfer to VCU next spring," Booth said, flashing his badge. The girl's thin eyebrows raised, her sticky pink Barbie-doll lips forming a small 'o' shape.

"Oh-kay," she said, spinning her chair to the left and facing yet another computer monitor. "What's the student's name?"

"Elaine Blackwood," Booth said. The girl's fingers clattered across the keyboard, her white-tipped manicured nails making sharp sounds against the plastic keys.

"Doesn't show that we have an Elaine Blackwood pending admission to the university," the girl said. "Are you sure she filed her transfer application with us?"

"She was meeting with an academic advisor here at the university," Booth said. "We need to know who she was meeting with."

"Well sir, you're gonna have to go to the student advising center for that. We don't keep records of advisement here."

"But I just came from there," Booth said. "They told me that if she wasn't a student at the university, they wouldn't have her on file, and I needed to talk to admissions."

"Nope," the girl said, looking down at her nails. "If it's information about advisement appointments you need, you gotta talk to the folks down in student advising." Booth growled audibly, and the girl gave him a peculiar look. Brennan grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the desk.

"Great, thanks," Brennan said, leading Booth back out into the cold. His jaw was set into a jutting scowl as they marched back to the student advising center.

"Why would they send me from one place to another, just to have them send me back to the place I just came from?" Booth asked irritably. Brennan shrugged.

"Because any large-scale university is run like a bureaucracy," she said. "You work for a bureaucracy, you should know just how incredibly inefficient they are."

"That's the truth," Booth grumbled as they re-entered the student advising center. The former receptionist was still sitting behind the counter, engrossed in whatever website she was browsing. Booth had a sneaking suspicion it was the same one the other girl had been viewing pictures on.

"I went to admissions," Booth said to the receptionist, who chomped on a fresh piece of gum. "They told me that all records of advising appointments are kept with you guys." She looked up at him lazily.

"Only if they're students of ours," the receptionist said. "If the girl you're lookin' for ain't a student, she won't be in our records. You need to go back down to admissions—"

"I was just there!" Booth said exasperatedly.

"—and talk to the transfer advisors down there," she continued. "This is _student_ advising, not _potential_ student advising." Booth looked apt to spit nails, and instead turned on his heel and exited the building. Brennan followed on his heels, and soon they were back in admissions.

"I need to speak to your transfer advisors," Booth said through gritted teeth, loudly enough that he could be heard over the girl's music. She made a face like she was searching for the answer to a question that was not posed to her, eyes drifting off to the upper-right area of her vision, mouth sideways in thought.

"Hmmmm…" she said.

"Hmmmm what? It wasn't a question, it was a request," Booth snarled. The girl suddenly made a face as if a light had come on.

"Oh, you want to speak to _transfer_ advisors!" she exclaimed. Brennan sighed loudly, the first sound she had made since they entered the building. Booth screwed his eyes shut until lights popped in front of them, then opened them again.

"Yes," he said plainly. "I want to speak to Elaine Blackwood's transfer advisor."

"Well I don't know who—" the girl started, but at this point Booth had enjoyed more than his share of university bureaucracy.

"Look, just get on your little phone there and ask around until you figure out which one of your _transfer_ advisors worked with Elaine, then let me talk to 'em!" Booth shouted, more loudly than he had intended to. The girl looked affronted.

"Alright, alright, no need to yell," the girl said sorely, picking up the phone off of the cradle. "Wait just a hot minute here and I'll see what I can find out for ya."

"Thank you," Booth said at an obnoxious volume, crossing the room and dropping his oversized body down into a small vinyl waiting chair. Brennan sat herself gingerly in the chair next to his, feeling the frustration coming off of him in waves. Finally the receptionist waved them back.

"Elaine Blackwood, pending transfer from Marymount to VCU, met several times with an advisor we have named Peggy," the receptionist said.

"Great," Booth said. "Where can I talk to Peggy at?" The receptionist did not meet his gaze.

"Um…" she began, fidgeting with the chord on her phone. "Peggy actually isn't one of our full-time transfer advisors, she was picking up for Darlene who just had a baby about a month ago. She usually works as a general undergrad advisor."

"That's great," Booth said impatiently. "Where's Peggy's regular office?" The girl's cheeks pinked.

"The student advising center."

The pair crossed campus for the fourth time, and Booth was positively livid when they reached the student advising center. When he swung the door open, the receptionist looked up at him almost amusedly. This did not help to soothe his flaring temper.

"I need to speak to Peggy," he said loudly, putting his hands face-down on the front desk. "I know she works here and her office is in this building, please direct me to her. Now." The receptionist gave him a dirty look.

"Well alrighty then," she said airily, picking up the phone and dialing an extension. She had a brief exchange with someone on the other end, then hung up.

"If you go through that door and take your first left, it will be the last door at the end of the hallway, on the right," the receptionist said. "Her name's on the door, Peggy Rosagualda."

"Thanks," Booth said tersely, and he and Brennan followed the woman's directions to a door at the end of the hall with an engraved brass plaque on the door. When they knocked, a clear voice yelled, 'It's open!'

"Peggy Rosagualda? I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth, and this is my partner Dr. Brennan," he introduced after they closed the door behind them.

"Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan, nice to meet you," the woman said, seated behind her desk with a folder open in front of her. The first thing Booth had to do was force himself not to stare at the woman's face. It was marred, with a deep reddish scar extending from the corner of her left eye around the lower curve of her eye, then down her cheek to her jawbone. The skin around the eye hung as if the scar tissue had tightened, pulling it away from the eye socket, and when she blinked the lower lid did not quite reach the upper. The scar, like a fault line, tugged at the corner of her mouth, pulling it a bit to the side and misshaping her smile.

"Please, have a seat," she said, offering them the chairs in front of her desk. They sat, and Booth made every effort to stare directly into the woman's eyes when he spoke to her.

"Mrs. Rosagualda," Booth began, but the woman waved him off with her hand.

"Peggy, please," she said. He nodded.

"Peggy," he corrected. "We're here to ask you a couple of questions about a girl from Marymount who was in the process of transferring to VCU. Her name was Elaine Blackwood." Half of the woman's face smiled, and she nodded, her tight black curls bouncing around her head. It was then that Booth made another realization about her appearance—she was missing the ear on the damaged side of her face. Where it should have been, there was only a hole surrounded by tight scar tissue.

"I know Elaine," she said. "She's a nice girl, very bright, very applied. I hope she isn't in any trouble?"

"Peggy, Elaine is dead," Booth said. The woman's brows knit in misunderstanding, then dawning horror, made somehow more tragic by the expressions she could not help making.

"Dead? How?" she asked, shaking her head a little.

"We don't know," Booth said. "But it looks like foul play. We wanted to ask you about your meetings with Elaine."

"Sure," Peggy said. "I started meeting with Elaine about six weeks ago, when she first decided to transfer to Commonwealth. She was interested in the medical program here—one of the best, you know. Anyway, at the time I was filling in for one of our transfer advisors who was on maternity leave. This is actually my first week back to my regular work."

"What exactly is your regular work, Peggy?" Booth asked, taking notes.

"I'm an undergraduate advisor," she responded.

"What does that entail?" Brennan asked.

"Well, you know," Peggy began. "It depends. Sometimes it's help organizing a schedule, sometimes it's working out two-year and four-year plans, getting kids signed up for the tests they need to take, career planning, stuff like that. Anything academic the kids might have questions about."

"So you were a strictly academic advisor, then?" Booth asked.

"Yes, Agent Booth," Peggy said. "If Elaine had any problems going on in her personal life, I wasn't aware of them. The only problem she ever discussed with me was paperwork issues. You know how bureaucratic these big schools can be." Booth rolled his eyes.

"Don't I," he said. "So Elaine was looking to go pre-med?"

"Well, sort of," Peggy said. "We don't have a Pre-Med major, per say, but we have a Pre-Med program that helps guide the students to make sure they complete all pre-requisites for medical school. Her major was Biochemistry, with a concentration in molecular biology and genetics."

"Wow," Booth said. "That's a mouthful."

"Dr. Brennan," Peggy asked, suddenly turning her focus to the woman. "Doctor as in M.D., or Ph.D.?"

"Ph.D.," Brennan replied. "Forensic anthropology."

"Interesting," Peggy said. "We don't get many of those through here. You must be at the top of your game if the FBI has you working for them."

"I don't work for them," Brennan said resolutely. "I work at the Jeffersonian. But yes, I am the best in my field."

"Beauty and brains," Peggy said. "Unusual combination. Lucky you." Peggy focused her gaze on Brennan, although her left eye appeared somehow less focused than the right. Brennan felt uncomfortable—an unusual feeling for her—and she shifted in her chair. Booth brought the focus back to the case.

"Alright, well thank you Mrs. Rosagualda," Booth said, rising from his seat. Brennan followed suit. "If we need anything else, we'll call you."

"Okay," Peggy said, rising from her seat and showing them the door. "If I can do anything else to help, let me know." She shut the door behind them when they left, but Brennan couldn't shake the crawly feeling on her back as if she were being watched as she walked with Booth down the hall.

"Well that didn't help much," Booth said grouchily as they exited the building.

"No," Brennan said, glad to be outside of the building, even if it meant walking through the drizzle of sleet that had begun to fall on them. "No, it didn't."

--

**A/N:** Just an FYI, this chapter is sprinkled with little subtle foreshadowings regarding the rest of the fic... and some not so subtle ones. So what did you think? Good? Bad? Tolerable? Leave a review and let me know! :)


	4. Shadow in the Background of the Morgue

**A/N:** Okay, okay, I'm slow. I'm sorry! I really wanted to get more of this done before Halloween came and went, but here we are and that didn't happen. Oh well... there's plenty of left-over creepiness to go around. I was glad to see y'all's feedback on Peggy... and I will leave it at that. :) I'm not the kind of person who can write a fic knowing all of the details and the plot "stuff" beforehand... I usually start with a general idea of what's going to happen, then allow the story to flesh itself out as it progresses. I was stuck a few days ago on one of the key points of the plot, but I think I've got it figured out now, so hopefully my updates will come a little more frequently from now on. With that said, enjoy the new chapter!

--

When Brennan left for work the following Monday morning it was still pitch-black outside, a light sleet slapping her windshield as she drove. Icy pieces sloshed back and forth across the glass, the car's defrost blasting hot air, and she wondered how long it would be before they got their first real snow of the year. It had been unseasonably cold for mid-October in the D.C. metro area. As she exited her car, she pulled her parka closer to her body, attempting to shield herself against the frigid air. It was somehow colder deep in the bowels of the parking garage—there was no wind and no falling ice, but the pillars of cement and depths unreached by the sun made it like a cave.

She was thankful for the Jeffersonian's powerful heaters as she entered her office, shedding her outermost coat and scarf and dropping them on the couch. She sat at her desk and peeled off her heeled boots, tossing them aside gently and folding her feet up underneath her body for added warmth. She would warm up while she dealt with the growth of paperwork that had appeared on her desk over the weekend; by the time she finished that up, the rest of the team should have arrived, and they could continue making headway on the case.

She peered up at the clock hanging against the far wall of her office: six fifteen in the morning. She hadn't meant to rise so early—the night before, however, had not been very restful, and by four-thirty she figured that she would be better off getting up and coming to work than lying awake in bed for another two hours. She stifled a yawn and stretched her arms over her head. By eight Cam would arrive, and Hodgins. Angela was a bit of a night owl, but usually came crawling through the door with her coffee by eight thirty. Booth would show up by nine, after first making rounds at his office.

Her thoughts wandering, Brennan picked up the first envelope off of her desk and found that it was neither an official request for authentication, as she had thought, nor a notice from her publisher, as had been her second thought. It was addressed to her, care of the Jeffersonian, and had no return address. _Probably_, she thought, _a piece of fan mail._ Usually, however, fans sent their letters through her publisher, so to receive one at the Jeffersonian struck her as peculiar. She slid her finger under the flap and tore it open, pulling out the folded contents.

Printed on the folded piece of paper was a picture of her face. More precisely, a blown-up photocopy from the inside cover of one of her novels. It took up the entire sheet of computer paper, printed in black and white, and had no words written anywhere on the front or back. She looked inside the envelope for an accompanying letter, assuming the sender wanted her to autograph the picture, but could not find one. Thinking they must have forgotten to put it in the envelope before they sent it, she tossed the picture and envelope to the edge of her desk, and picked up the next piece of mail.

Her brows furrowed when she realized that this, too, was a plain envelope with her name, care of the Jeffersonian, and no return address. She picked up the first envelope and compared the print on the front—the same blue ink, in small, neat all-caps print. She opened the second envelope. Inside of it was another photograph, blown up to the full size of the paper. This one she recognized as the shot taken of the entire team for a New York Times article written about them. It was from the same article that Angela had received from Howard Epps, blacked out except for the telling excerpt that exposed her as "the heart of the operation". In the photograph, everyone else was marked out with thick black marker, leaving only Brennan's printed form standing amongst a cloud of scribbles.

She looked down at the pile of paperwork in front of her, and realized that there were at least ten or twelve of these letters. She flipped them all face-up and compared handwritings—all the same. She tore them open one by one, revealing their contents. A picture of her from National Geographic, at a dig site in France. A photo taken at a book signing. Several still shots from television interviews, magnified so that her face took up nearly the entire page. No letters, no return addresses. She picked up the last envelope and opened it, expecting to find another photograph of herself. Instead she found a sheet of paper with clippings from various magazines cut out carefully and pasted. It reminded her a bit of a movie ransom note, each of the clippings a different font, a different size, a different color. She read it slowly to herself.

_Dr. Temperance Brennan is A beautiful and INTELLIGENT Woman she makes All other PEOPLE jealous of her waistLINE and Figure The MEN Always look at her and She Thinks in ways higher than all others_

She set the cut-and-paste letter down and stepped away from her desk, digging her phone out of her purse and hitting the first speed dial.

"Yeah?" Booth answered in a voice laced with sleep. There was a moment of silence before she cleared her throat.

"Booth," she said. "I need you to come down to the Jeffersonian."

"What time is it?" he asked thickly.

"Six thirty," she said. She heard him groan.

"I'll be there in a few hours" he mumbled. She bit her bottom lip.

"I'd prefer if you came now," she said tensely. She heard him shift, presumably sitting up in his bed.

"Why? What's wrong?" he asked, his voice suddenly clear and awake. "What happened?"

"I just… I don't know. It's probably nothing," she said, but she heard the sound of drawers opening and closing on the other end of the line.

"I'll be there soon," he said, the end of 'soon' sounding far away, as if he were holding the phone away from his head to pull a shirt on. "Will you be okay until I get there? Did you call security?"

"It's not that urgent, I'm okay," Brennan said, feeling a little stupid. Why had she called him so suddenly? It was just a little obsessive fan mail, it could have waited until he showed up in a few hours. There was nothing pressing, no security breach or bleeding organs. There was just something about that letter…

"Well either way, I'll be there in a few minutes," Booth said, hanging up the phone. She snapped her phone shut and set it on the couch next to her, leaning into the cushions and rubbing her eyes. True to his word, within twenty minutes Brennan could hear the familiar click of Booth's dress shoes coming down the hall towards her office, his stride long and steady. He threw her door open, looking around the room as if expecting a perpetrator to be hiding behind a filing cabinet.

"What's wrong? What happened?" he asked.

"You got here fast," she said, deflecting the question. "You must have driven like a bird out of hell."

"_Bat_," he corrected. "Like a _bat_ out of hell. And I did, you sounded upset. What happened?"

"I told you it wasn't urgent, it could've waited," she said, almost admonishingly. He frowned.

"If it could have waited, why did you call me at six thirty in the morning about it?" Booth asked. "Besides, you didn't sound like it could've waited. What's up?"

"Well," Brennan began, motioning towards the collection of opened mail on her desk. "I got a lot of mail over the weekend." Booth looked up at her, clearly expecting there to be more to the story.

"And?" he said.

"Some of it was… I don't know, weird," she said. "Not like the usual obsessive fan mail I get, not the 'I want to marry you' letters. Here, look." She handed him the photographs, which she had arranged into a neat stack, with the cut-out letter on top. He read the letter first, slowly like she had, then flipped through the pictures. His face darkened.

"I don't like this letter," he said, holding up the short note.

"Neither do I," Brennan said, feeling a little queasy. She sat back down on the couch, holding her elbows in her palms. It was unlike her to feel shaken up about something like this—when Howard Epps was after her, she had insisted on staying in her own home. When a hit was put out on her, she still walked the streets as if nothing was wrong. Maybe she was about to start her period; a flux in hormones would be a decent excuse for her peculiar feelings.

"I'm going to have Sweets take a look at this," Booth said, pulling out his phone. "See if we've got some kind of psycho stalking you or what."

"Don't call him this early," Brennan said, looking down at her own phone. It was just past seven. Booth scowled.

"You didn't have any problem calling me at the crack of dawn," he said, putting his phone away. She scowled. "Fine, I'll wait. He's coming in later today anyway, he did a psychological profile of whoever killed the girls we found. I'll have him take a look and see if he thinks it's the same guy or not."

"Okay," Brennan said. Booth took a seat in her desk chair.

"And until then," he began, "you're not going anywhere without me." Brennan huffed indignantly.

"I'll be fine," she said. Booth shook his head.

"You don't know that, you could have a psycho serial killer on your tail."

"That's kind of a grand statement to make based on a few photos and a cut-out letter," Brennan said. Booth shrugged.

"Might be," he said. "But I'm not taking any chances either way." She narrowed her eyes at him, but was secretly thankful for his alpha-male tendencies. While she wouldn't admit it freely to herself or anyone else, she knew deep down that this was the reason she had panicked and called Booth—she wanted to feel protected, and he did just that for her.

"Fine," she said, conceding victory. Booth smiled charmingly.

"Good," he said. His stomach growled loudly, and he stood up, offering her his hand. "And since you called me here before I had the opportunity to eat a decent meal, and I'm not letting you out of my sight, we're going to breakfast. Don't argue." She rolled her eyes and sighed loudly, taking his hand and letting him pull her lightly to her feet. She pulled her boots on and allowed Booth to help her into her coat.

When they entered the parking garage, she felt the pressure of his hand against the small of her back, touching her protectively and instinctually. Once they reached a particular area of the garage, the hand slipped to the side of her waist, tucking her in close to him as they walked, and she allowed it. It was the place where she had been abducted two years ago; where Hodgins had been run down, and the Gravedigger had taken off with them.

She generally parked on the upper level now, to avoid having to pass by this place. Every time she approached the place—for she had never forgotten the exact location, the exact parking space she had been parked in—she felt her pulse spike, her chest constrict, and a peculiar feeling like years-old panic settle into her. She knew she was not being irrational; she had a strong fear associated with a traumatic incident, and as Booth liked to say, with criminals you can always expect lightning to strike twice. Nevertheless, she still felt a creeping sense of shame when the old fear passed, from a source she could not quite pin.

She held her breath as they passed over the spot, the way a child would hold their breath as they ran past a graveyard at night. Booth moved his hand to her elbow, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"You're not going anywhere this time," he said, though she could not miss the controlled fear in his own voice.

--

**A/N:** You know, in some ways I feel like I am being so obvious that it's ridiculous. But then I read your reviews and hear the predictions you guys have and I feel like what I'm trying to emphasize and what you're reading as being emphasized are not the same thing, so I'm almost not being obvious enough. Or maybe it's just the right amount of obscurity and forthrightness? And maybe that didn't make any sense at all, I don't know. It's 2 in the morning and I'm a little tired. But there it is. What are your thoughts? Love it? Hate it? What do you see happening next? I love reading your predictions and your thoughts about my writing, so please, keep 'em coming!

Oh, and on an unrelated note... today is ELECTION DAY! So if you're a registered voter in the United States, and you haven't yet... VOTE!!!


	5. Running in Circles, Coming up Tails

**A/N:** Sorry that it took me almost a week to update! I wanted to get it posted faster, but the past week has been hectic and I have been very transient. In fact, this is the first night that I have spent more than one night in the same location! So as you can see, I haven't had much time to write... but now that I am able to spend more than 24 hours in one place, I had some time to sit down and churn out another chapter. Woohoo! By the way, I LOVE reading your predictions about what's going to happen. Really love it. Not only does it allow me to gauge how much information I am or am not giving, but in some cases, you give me little ideas to toss in. :) I have almost all of the details of this fic hammered out, so it should be coming in quicker additions from now on. (Did I say that at the beginning of the last chapter too? Maybe I'll actually mean it this time.) Anyway... enjoy!

* * *

Booth was wolfing down a plate of eggs and sausage links and Brennan was blowing on the surface of her coffee when Sweets entered the diner, carrying a laden manila envelope. Booth rose from his seat and took the one next to Brennan, sliding his plate across the table and allowing Sweets to monopolize the far side.

"How are you two doing this morning?" Sweets asked genially, flagging their waitress down for a cup of coffee.

"Fine," Brennan replied, but Booth shook his head.

"Bones got a weird bunch of letters in the mail over the weekend," he said, withdrawing the stack of envelopes from where he had shoved them in the case file. "I want you to look at them and see if the same guy who's been killing those girls wrote the letters."

"I doubt it was the same guy," Sweets said, sipping his hot coffee and making a pained face as he swallowed it down. Too hot.

"How can you say that? You haven't even looked at them!" Booth asked. Sweets handed the manila folder across the table to Booth.

"Because it is extremely unlikely that the killer was a man," he explained.

"Really?" Brennan asked, intrigued. It was very rare for a serial killer to be female.

"Really really," Sweets replied.

"How come?" Booth asked, flipping through the pages-long report and setting it aside. He would read it later—right now he'd prefer to get the summary from Sweets.

"The murders weren't motivated by power, sexually or otherwise," Sweets began, but Brennan cut in.

"But they were tied up," she argued. "Three of the four, anyway. The ones we could identify were all bound by the wrists and ankles."

"I don't believe their bindings were part of a power struggle, or an assertion of dominance. I believe they were simply to prevent the victim from fighting back," Sweets explained. "Rape is usually a display of dominance and power, not for sexual gratification, but none of the four victims were sexually assaulted. Also, two of the four women were badly beaten on the face. While this tip-toes more into the realm of subjective observation—"

"Like all psychology," Brennan muttered.

"—if you look at the photographs of the victims," Sweets continued, steamrolling past her comment, "the two with the worst facial damage had the most attractive faces."

"But the standard of beauty is wildly variable," Brennan argued. "The idea of what is beautiful and what isn't varies from culture to culture, tribe to tribe, even person to person. What you subjectively believe to be beautiful doesn't necessarily translate to someone else's subjective ideal of beauty, or even at all."

"The American standard of beauty," Sweets clarified, pulling the girl's photos out onto the table. "Elaine and Jennifer. Big eyes, long hair, smooth skin, straight teeth. Jennifer was a model, even—she definitely qualified as a pretty face." Booth nodded.

"Okay," Booth said. "But what about Laura and four, the unidentified girl?"

"I don't know," Sweets said with a frown. "That's where I lost the connection."

"Laura and four had very little facial damage, besides for a blow to the temporal bone on four," Brennan said. "Laura had a hairline fracture on the back of her skull, but it wasn't enough to kill her. Maybe to knock her out temporarily, but it didn't cause any intracranial bleeds."

"So what was the outstanding damage on Laura and four?" Booth asked. Brennan pulled the case folder over to her, opening it up and flipping to the pages of notes she had taken previously to refresh her memory.

"Laura suffered multiple leg breaks. Not hairline fractures either, but clean breaks. Three to the left femur, two to the right femur, two to each tibia, one to each fibula, and both patellas were cracked."

"Ouch," Sweets commented, making a pained face that had nothing to do with the burn on the roof of his mouth.

"That's… wow," Booth said. "Do you know what the killer used to break her legs?"

"Hodgins found traces of aluminum on the remaining flesh on the victim's legs," Brennan said. "He matched the same aluminum traces to the other victim's faces."

"Aluminum like, aluminum baseball bat?" Booth asked. Brennan shrugged.

"Maybe," she said. "But there were no traces of aluminum anywhere on four's body. Absolutely none." Booth made a grouchy sound, chewing a sausage link aggressively.

"But we know the same person killed all four girls," he said. "Hodgins traced them all to the inside the trunk of the same car."

"The same car, or the same kind of material lining the trunk?" Sweets asked. "I'm not a car expert, but I think the trunks of most sedans are lined with the same kind of material."

"I'll ask Hodgins to look into it," Booth said darkly. "The last thing we need is for the one thing tying all four murders together to end up being circumstantial evidence."

"That would totally blow," Sweets said, then pinked slightly under Brennan's disproving gaze. "I mean, that would be bad."

"But you still think the murderer is a woman," Brennan said. "Why?"

"Because none of our victims were overpowered," Sweets said. "Not only was there no sexual power struggle, but they weren't even physically overtaken. All of them appear, based on your findings, to have been surprised or snuck up on. Most men engage in hand-to-hand combat with the women they attack and easily overpower them, but this killer either lured the women into a safe area and knocked them unconscious, or snuck up on them."

"And they weren't raped," Booth added. "Violent male attackers almost always rape their victims."

"Unless it's a righteous kill," Sweets added. "But yes, generally speaking, a male attacker is motivated by his own submissive role in society to engage in a dominance struggle with a weaker target, one he knows he can subjugate."

"What constitutes a righteous kill?" Brennan asked.

"Well, when a murderer feels that the victim must pay retribution for something they have personally done to the murderer or their immediate kin. For instance, if a woman cheats on her husband and her husband comes back a week later with a gun and shoots her to death. His wife is paying retribution for her crime, but it is extremely unlikely that he would rape her during or after the attack."

"Okay," Booth said. "So if our killer's motive wasn't retribution or dominance, what was it?"

"It's hard to say," Sweets said. "It was obvious to me that dominance was not the issue, and there doesn't appear to be any connection between the women that suggests that their deaths are retribution for a crime they might have committed. But beyond that, given the variability of the damage done to the bodies, it's difficult to tell. Judging by one and two only, I would say the motive was jealousy. Tall, attractive, intelligent women, with their most obvious and attractive features damaged. But their murders were extremely violent to be motivated by simple jealousy."

"What about when you factor three and four into your analysis?" Brennan asked. Sweets rubbed his hand back through his hair, leaning into his seat.

"That's the problem," he said. "Three suffered extensive damage, but not to her skull, aside from the blow that knocked her out. And four only has two distinct marks on her entire body, to her temporal lobe and damage around her wrists."

"Four also suffered severe hemorrhaging at the site," Brennan added. "After the bones were cleaned I examined the inside of her skull, and found staining consistent with a massive bleed. More than likely that's what killed her."

"According to your write-up, you also noted that the damage to her wrists was much less extensive than the other three girls," Sweets added, looking down at his papers. "Why is that?"

"Either the killer didn't expect her to wake up, or she didn't fight back," Booth said, leaning over Brennan's shoulder to read her lab notes. She could feel his hot breath on her neck and ear, and bit her bottom lip.

"What if she fell?" Brennan suddenly said, turning to face Booth. Forgetting that he was so close, when she turned his face was still resting on her shoulder, and their noses touched as her eyes met his. He jumped back as if he had touched an electric fence, and cleared his throat.

"You mean four?" he asked, regaining composure. Brennan nodded.

"She suffered one blow, to the temporal bone. It was a hard one, but there was no sign that the same aluminum weapon—perhaps a bat—was the instrument that killed her. If she turned like this," Brennan explained, turning her head and arms slightly as if she were trying to brace herself against a fall, "she could have easily fallen and hit her head, ruptured a blood vessel, bled out and died."

"But if her death was an accident, why would her body be in the middle of a pumpkin patch with three murder victims, with the same fibers found on her as the other three?" Sweets asked.

"Maybe…" Booth began, gears turning. "Maybe she walked in on one of the girls being tortured, and the killer saw her. The killer chases her, she falls and hits her head and dies, and the killer ties her up in case she comes to. When she doesn't, they dump her body with the others."

"That sounds plausible," Brennan said. "Hodgins's results on the pupae indicate that four was killed one week ago."

"Same as Elaine Blackwood," Booth said. "Okay, so let me get this straight… two and three, Jennifer and Laura, both go missing around three weeks ago. Both students at Commonwealth. Two weeks later, Elaine and four show up dead in the same pumpkin patch. Elaine is a student at Marymount, pending transfer to Commonwealth. Elaine and four end up dead at the same time, so it must have been Elaine that four saw being killed."

"If that's what happened," Brennan said. "We still don't know."

"You yourself said it sounded plausible," Booth pointed out.

"Plausible, not one hundred percent accurate," she clarified. "I don't want to jump to any conclusions before we know more about the fourth girl."

"If you want to find out about the fourth girl, I would suggest going back to the small town where the bodies were found," Sweets suggested.

"How come?" Brennan asked.

"The girl has never been to a dentist, so she was probably poor," Booth explained. "Poor people don't usually travel far from where they live, so she probably lived in the area. Small town people talk, Bones—if anyone up and left, or if someone wasn't acting right, it would go through the grapevine in a heartbeat."

"There aren't any vineyards near Kimball," Brennan pointed out, slightly confused. "What does a grapevine have anything to do with it?" Booth rolled his eyes.

"Gossip, Bones. It means everyone talks about everyone."

"Oh," she said, understanding. "So we need to go back to the town, then?"

"I think that would be your best shot at finding your anonymous victim's identity," Sweets said, looking down at his watch. "I have an appointment in half an hour, so I'm going to go back to my office. If you find anything out, fax it to me."

"Wait, before you go, look at these," Booth said, handing Sweets the stack of strange mail from Brennan's office. "Do you think there's any connection between those letters and the case?" Sweets laid the pictures out on the table in front of him, his eyes tracing over each one in turn. He read the letter to himself, mouthing the words silently. His eyebrows went up.

"It's definitely creepy," he said. "Cut out letters indicate a façade, a person hiding themselves behind something they're not. Handwriting is very indicative of a person's nature, and to hide one's handwriting is to hide part of one's identity. Also, more practically, handwriting can be matched if the person giving a sample doesn't know they're giving a sample. As far as the pictures, I wouldn't say they're particularly troubling, just a little obsessive. Then again, judging based on Booth's incident last year, obsession taken to an extreme can be quite dangerous."

"So you don't think the person who sent her these is in any way connected to the murders?" Booth asked. Sweets made a troubled face.

"I don't know, Agent Booth," he said. "Honestly, my profile on this killer is terribly incomplete, based on the conflicting evidence provided. I wouldn't rule anything out with certainty. But now I'm running late; like I said, get in touch with me if any new evidence surfaces." With that Sweets left, and Booth turned to Brennan with a dark smirk.

"See?" Booth said in an I-told-you-so fashion to Brennan, who gathered the photos and letters and tucked them into her purse.

"Sweets didn't say you were right," she argued.

"He didn't say I was wrong, either," Booth retorted. "And until I know I'm wrong, I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"Fine," Brennan said. "There's no point in arguing with you about it." Booth gave her a peculiar look, as if he had been expecting a heated battle over his protection of her.

"Good," he said. "Then let's get going. I want to get back out to that town and see what they might know that we don't."

* * *

**A/N:** So there you go, another informative chapter. I am trying really hard to make everything very consistent from chapter to chapter, but if you notice any inconsistencies, please point them out to me! I won't be offended in the slightest, and in fact I would appreciate it very much. That said, I love all of your reviews, so please keep 'em coming. :)


	6. Praying That the Storm Someday Will End

**A/N:** Don't shoot! I know it's been almost 2 weeks since my last update on this fic, and I know that I keep telling you my updates will come more frequently... apparently I have made myself out to be a terrible liar. I have just been having a really hard time sitting down and writing anything lately, with the insanity of life crushing me at the moment. Very soon, though, finals will come and go and I will be free for a few weeks to work ridiculously long shifts and write fanfic into the dog's hours of the night. :) I haven't been completely AWOL from fanfic writing, though... for anyone who hasn't already read it, I have a new one-shot up called _Swallowing Stars_. After learning about Booth's alcoholic, abusive father, I had to do some writing on the subject. Alcoholism is the uninvited guest in my family, so it really hit close to home for me.

Anyway, with that, here's chapter six! I know I had said we'd be meeting Pete again in this chapter (or at least I think I said that), but it just didn't happen. Don't fret, though - you will be seeing him again in the very near future! Because I love him, and judging by your reviews, so do y'all. But even in Pete's absence, there is southern goodness abound in this chapter... so enjoy. :)

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"Yeesh, it's like Deliverance out here," Booth commented the next morning as they passed a sign that told them they were now entering the Kimball township.

"I don't know what that means," Brennan said vaguely, sipping black coffee from a disposable cup as she peered out the windshield, taking in the rural setting unfolding before them. The town appeared to consist of one main road, lined with worn out brick structures; cracked and weather-beaten, they were like old men slouching side by side. Cobbled sidewalks lined either side of the road, testament to the age of the town. Booth pulled the SUV up against the curb and parked, feeding a parking meter that appeared older than he was.

"Look," he said as they walked, pointing down to a sunny weed fighting its way out from between two brown cobblestones, despite the frost that had settled across the upper half of Virginia the previous night.

"_Taraxacum officinale,_" Brennan said, looking down at the flowering plant. "Those are unusual this late in the year."

"What are you talking about? It's a dandelion," Booth said confusedly. Brennan gave him a peculiar look.

"That's what I said," she said. "_Taraxacum officinale_, from the Asteraceae family."

"Aster-what?" he asked.

"As-ter-_ay_-see-eye," Brennan said, pronouncing each syllable individually. "Taxonomically speaking, it's a family of plants characterized by a capitulum composed of dozens of individual florets that appear to be one flower. Fossilized specimens date back almost fifty million years ago."

"I thought plants were Hodgins's thing," Booth half stated, half questioned. Brennan nodded.

"Well, they are, but there's an entire subfield of anthropology devoted to the relationship between cultures and their usage of plants," she explained. "Ethnobotany."

"That's… almost interesting," Booth said.

"The history of human interaction with their botanical environment is very interesting," Brennan said. He shrugged and she sipped the last of her coffee, finding a trashcan outside of an old-fashioned drug store and dumping the cup.

"You know, you could just call it a dandelion," he added, after a moment of quiet between them. "It wouldn't kill you."

"It just might," Brennan said with a wry smile. They continued down the sidewalk, passing small consignment stores, a grocery store, a realty office.

"Booth?" Brennan finally asked, after they walked down the length of the road, crossed the street, and began walking back up the other side.

"Yeah?"

"Where's the police station?" she asked. He looked over at her.

"There isn't one," he replied.

"Why not?" she asked. He motioned around them.

"Do you see where we are?" he asked. "This place isn't big enough for a police station. The Powhatan county sheriff's department takes care of whatever happens out here. That officer we talked to at the crime scene? Powhatan county S.O."

"Oh," she said, pausing before asking another question. "Then where are we going? I thought we were trying to identify the fourth body."

"Bones," Booth said, stopping and facing her. "You're an anthropologist, right?"

"Yes," she answered, unsure of the direction this was taking.

"Right," he said. "So when you need to find out something about a group of people, how do you figure it out?"

"Generally if you're composing a cultural ethnography, you engage in a considerable amount of fieldwork, interviewing individuals and…" she replied.

"So you talk to people, right?" he said, cutting off her ramblings. She nodded.

"Yes," she replied. "You talk to people."

"Exactly," he said, opening the door of a small mom-and-pop restaurant and holding it for her.

They walked into the restaurant, and were immediately hit with the heavy smell of fried food—bacon sizzling in the pan, eggs, sausage links. Booth knew the grease would be drained and reapplied to another pan, for pancakes, French toast, biscuits, cornbread. The smell settled over them like a warm quilt as they sank into the cushy booth seats surrounding a knotty heart pine table in the far corner of the restaurant.

They had hardly been seated for thirty seconds before they were approached by a woman who appeared to be as wide as she was tall. Her curly brown hair was streaked with grey and pulled into a bun on the back of her head, a few stray curls falling into her full face. The apron she wore was splattered with small grease spots and dusted with flour—remnants from the kitchen. As she approached their table, her expression was hard and drawn, as if she were in a very foul mood. When she reached them, though, her face split into a broad grin as she stood in front of them, arms akimbo.

"Well y'all ain't from aroun' here, arya?" was her greeting, as her murky blue-grey eyes flicked from Booth to Brennan.

"How could she possibly know that just from looking at us?" Brennan asked Booth under her breath, but audibly. She really wasn't a very quiet whisperer.

"Honey, I know every person in this town," the woman answered for Booth, almost proudly. "If someone's born, dies, passes through, I know about 'em. And I ain't never seen y'all 'round here. I'm Sadie." She put out a broad, weathered hand and shook Booth's, then Brennan's. Her palms were rough and calloused; she was without doubt a working woman.

"Seeley Booth," Booth replied, neglecting to divulge his professional title. "This is my… this is Temperance Brennan," he said, pausing before deciding not to give her professional title either. It did not go unnoticed, but she did not correct him.

"Seeley, Temperance, nice to be meetin' y'all. I don't see no ring so I'm guessin' y'all ain't married… yet," Sadie noted, winking at Brennan. "Anyway, I'm sorry, I could chat the ears off'a corn. What'll do y'all to drink?"

"Just a water, please," Brennan said.

"I'll have a coke," Booth said.

"What kind?" Sadie asked him.

"A coke," he repeated.

"I heard ya, what kind?" Sadie asked again.

"Just a regular coke," Booth said.

"I mean, what flavor," Sadie clarified. Booth scrunched his brows.

"What?"

"We got Coke, diet Coke, Pepsi, diet Pepsi, Mountain Dew, root beer…"

"Just a regular, plain Coke, please," Booth said, slightly exasperated. Sadie smiled at him.

"Alrighty," she said, exiting to the kitchen. Booth shook his head.

"If I wanted a Pepsi, why would I ask for a Coke?" he asked Brennan, who was trying terribly to conceal her amusement. "What, what are you laughing at?"

"Booth, have you ever heard of a dialect map?" Brennan asked, still grinning.

"No," he said. "What's that?"

"It's something that linguists use to map out the way people speak in certain areas; the morphological components of the regional dialect, the isoglosses…"

"I have no idea what you're saying," he said bluntly.

"Well, that's almost my point," Brennan said. "In areas of the southeastern United States, speakers use different words to label different things—"

"No kidding," Booth grumbled.

"—for example, in much of the southeastern United States, 'coke' is a broad term used to define any carbonated beverage, not just Coca-Cola brand beverages. Where Russ and I grew up as kids, everyone called it 'pop'. It's simply a matter of regional dialect."

"Oh," Booth said, as Sadie returned with their drinks.

"I'm sorry, Seeley," Sadie said as she set the large, fizzing drink in front of him. "I wasn't set on confusin' you earlier, I just didn't—"

"No, no, it's fine," Booth said, taking a sip of the beverage. "I get it now." Sadie smiled warmly.

"Good," she said. "Now, what can I get y'all to eat?" They ordered, and within ten minutes, Sadie had returned to their table carrying a tray laden with breakfast stuffs—pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, and for Brennan, toast with jam.

"Hey, Sadie?" Booth called out as she turned to leave their table.

"Sir?" Sadie asked. Booth was slightly taken aback—judging by the grey in her hair, Sadie was probably older than he was.

"Uh, you know everyone who lives around here, right?" he asked. She nodded.

"Ev'ry one of 'em," she said.

"Great," he said. "Do you know a guy named Pete, who owns the pumpkin patch outside of town?"

"Pun'kin Pete? Yeah, I know'm," Sadie said nonchalantly.

"What do you know about him?" Booth asked. Sadie's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Why?" she asked, suddenly far less genial. "He don't owe you, do he?"

"Money?" Brennan asked. Apparently Sadie took the question as confirmation, because she swore loudly.

"Almighty, I told Pete I wasn't coverin' his raggedy ass no more," she said, setting the tray on a nearby empty table and reaching down into the pocket of her jeans, pulling out a wad of bills. "How much do he owe ya?"

"No, it's not that he owes us money," Booth said, shaking his head and pulling out his badge. "I'm a special agent with the FBI, we're investigating the murders of several individuals that were found in Pete's pumpkin patch." Sadie's mouth fell into an 'O' shape, and she shook her head.

"Now, you ain't tell me you was an officer," she said, sounding annoyed.

"I'm sorry," Booth said, hoping he had not lost the woman's trust.

"Don't be," she said, waving him off as she pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat at the end of their booth. "I jus' wouldn'a writ ya up a bill for the food if you had. Now what's this about Pete? I heard 'bout the bodies, but he ain't got nothin' to do with 'em, hazze?"

"Well, that's what we're trying to figure out," Booth explained, taking out a pad of paper to jot notes on.

"We're also having some difficulty identifying the fourth victim," Brennan added. "She was female, late teens to early twenties, maybe one-hundred seventy five centimeters in height."

"How tall?" Sadie asked.

"Feet, Bones," Booth added.

"Oh," Brennan said. "Perhaps five feet, nine inches."

"So, 'round-about your height?" Sadie asked. Brennan nodded. Sadie made a face that suggested she was thinking. Suddenly, her eyes lit up.

"Y'all might try askin' the Cleary folks," Sadie suggested. "They got a daughter 'bout that age, 'bout that tall. Used to work odd jobs for Pete, but I ain't seen her around lately. Y'all don't think…?"

"We don't know anything for sure," Booth said quickly. "We still don't have any leads, we're just trying to get all of the facts together." Sadie nodded.

"Pete's a good man," she added somberly. "He ain't a bad egg, he just got some problems, is all. Too much drinkin', too much gamblin'. Sometimes he owe more'n he can pay. Goes to church every Sunday, though, an' when he say he gonna pay you back, give'm long enough an' he will. He ain't a bad man. He wouldn't kill nobody."

"Thank you, Sadie," Booth said. "I appreciate your help, and I'm sorry we weren't entirely honest with you from the beginning." Sadie waved him off again, restoring the chair to its original table.

"Don't worry on it," she said. "Folks 'round here don't really put much faith in y'all from the city anyhow. You come 'round tellin' people you're with the FBI, an' that dog won't hunt." They both gave her very blank, uncomprehending looks, and she laughed.

"I mean, they won't… what's the word… cooperate," she clarified. "They won't work with ya." Booth nodded, and she did the same, leaving the two of them to finish their meals. When she returned to collect their plates, Booth pulled out his wallet, and she shook her head.

"I ain't takin' your money," she said, stacking their dirty plates and utensils.

"I came here to eat, I came here to pay," Booth said, holding his hand out for a check.

"Law enforcement don't pay here, Agent Booth," Sadie said stubbornly. "That's just how we run things."

"I really wish you would let me pay," Booth insisted.

"I tell you what, wish in one hand, spit in the other, see which one fills up first," Sadie quipped, grinning at the agent as she took their dishes up on her arm. She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with two Styrofoam cups, into which she poured the contents of Booth and Brennan's drinks.

"So, how do we get to the Cleary's house?" Booth asked as Sadie topped their cups.

"Well, it's a far piece," she said, pointing to the left of the building. "Y'all go south'a here for about half an hour, near 'bout to county's edge. Y'all'll pass a big dairy farm, so many cows you cain't stir 'em, an' about five minutes past that there'll be a dirt road on your right. Take it all the way down, that's them. Don' let the dogs scare ya, they wouldn't bite a snake if it was 'bout to hit 'em." Once Booth had mentally sifted through the hillbilly jargon and made sense of the directions, he thanked Sadie for her help, and threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table.

"Agent Booth," Sadie said sternly. He grinned charmingly.

"You said I couldn't pay," he said. "You never said I couldn't tip." Sadie rolled her eyes and shook her head, letting a laugh escape her lips.

"You're a good man, Agent Booth," she said. "Stubborn as all get-out, but a good man. You hang onto him," she added, looking at Brennan but jerking her head in Booth's direction. Sadie walked them to the door of the restaurant when they left, waving them off and reminding them that there'd always be a meal waiting for them in Kimball.

"There's the cow farm," Brennan pointed out as they drove past a vast muddy field, packed with tawny Jersey cows.

"She wasn't kidding when she called it a _far piece_," Booth grumbled, eyeing the gas gauge. They had in reality driven almost forty-five minutes to get to the cow farm, and he was relieved to know that the Cleary residence was not far off. If they'd had to go much farther, they wouldn't have made it back to a gas station with what was left in the tank. The last thing Booth wanted was to be stuck in BFE with no gas. They passed the described dirt road—which she neglected to mention was well hidden behind a patch of trees and underbrush—and had to double back. As they rumbled down the bumpy path they heard dogs barking, but sure as Sadie had described them, they did not as much as lift their tails from the front porch when they parked in front of the house.

"Mrs. Cleary?" Booth asked when a slight, sallow-skinned woman answered the front door. A large t-shirt hung off of her bony shoulders, and her pants appeared two sizes too big, cinched around her waist with a leather belt. She nodded, dark eyes widening.

"You're the Law, aren't ya?" she asked, accentuating the word _law_ discreetly as one does a proper noun, without being aware of having done so. Booth nodded, and she unlatched the screen from the doorframe, pushing it open and allowing them into the small cracker house.

It became apparent that her physical appearance was a reflection of the impoverished disarray of her surroundings. Threadbare furniture cluttered a small living room, unfinished wood floors covered in an eclectic assortment of area rugs. There was no television to be seen, but a radio sitting on the floor in the corner of the room. The windows were open, and there were no screens. A shotgun hung unobtrusively on a rack just inside the hallway, on a wall that was otherwise bare. Something popped and sizzled in the kitchen adjoining the room; from the smell, it was fried chicken. She led them into the kitchen so she could tend to the meat, sock feet shuffling over the peeling linoleum. An ancient refrigerator hummed in the corner next to a genuine cast-iron stove. The ceilings in the house seemed oppressively low, as if they were sagging—the entire house gave off a fairly depressed vibe.

"Is it one of the children?" Mrs. Cleary asked as she poked the breaded meat, sending grease popping into the air.

"Yes and no," Booth answered. "Mrs. Cleary—"

"Joan," she offered.

"Joan," Booth corrected with a smile. She did not smile back. "How many children do you have?"

"Seven," she answered plainly, removing the cooked meat from the pan and retrieving three more breaded pieces of raw chicken from a breading pan, setting them into the grease. "Well, six really; Justine's not a child anymore."

"Justine is your oldest daughter?" Booth asked. Joan nodded.

"Yessir," she responded. "She's nineteen. Earns her own keep, but still lives at the house. Helps me with the younguns."

"How old are your other children?" Booth asked out of curiosity. He could not imagine seven people living in the small tin-roofed cracker house he was presently standing in. He had not even seen a dining room table that could accommodate two, much less eight or nine.

"Carl's fifteen, Sarah's twelve, Darlene's eleven, Scott's nine, Emily's five and Roy Junior's two."

"Is Roy Senior…" Booth began to ask, but was not sure how to tactfully pose the question.

"Around? Naw," Joan answered. "He drank hisself into a ditch an' never woke up." She said this all slowly and unflinchingly, as if life's atrocities were little more than dinner table conversation.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Booth offered.

"I ain't," Joan said bitterly. She closed her eyes tightly and shook her head. "I 'pologize, it ain't right to talk ill of the dead."

"Why is that? It's not as if they can hear you," Brennan argued. Joan looked up at her with a peculiar expression on her face.

"Bless your heart," she finally said, in lieu of whatever was truly on her mind. "Anyway, he was a no-good drunk who couldn't hold a job. Him gone's one less mouth to feed, is all."

"Oh, I see," Booth said, not sure of what else to say. There was a moment of silence; the grease cackled and the floor groaned beneath them, with nobody else offering any meaningful contributions to the conversation.

"Officer, what have my children done this time?" Joan finally asked, her voice heavy as if it were just as tired as she was.

"When was the last time you saw your oldest daughter, Justine?" Booth asked. Joan furrowed her brows.

"Justine run off about two weeks ago," she said caustically.

"Do you know where she ran off to?" Booth asked. Joan shook her head.

"Cain't say," she responded. "I'm thinkin' she went to the city with that white trash boy she was seein'. Denny Finch's kid, Randy. Another good-for-nothin' just like his father."

"Have you heard anything from either Randy or Justine since her disappearance?" Booth asked. Joan shook her head.

"Not hide or hair, sir," she responded. "Which is strange for her. Even when we go at it, she always calls from wherever she's stayin' to let me know she got in alright. She ain't hurt, is she?" Joan asked, face tight.

"Mrs. Cleary, approximately how tall is your daughter?" Brennan asked.

"'Bout here," Joan answered, holding her hand up about three inches over her own head, near to Brennan's height. "Ain't got a number; none of the kids been to a doctor since they got their shots."

"Have any of them ever been to the dentist?" Booth asked. Joan eyed them warily.

"Y'all ain't from social services, are ya?" she asked. "'Cause I dunno who called you here, but I take damn good care of my kids. Sometimes they get a little outta hand, but I keep 'em fed and clothed and they got a roof over their heads. Ain't nobody hurtin' those kids."

"No, that's not it at all," Booth said, attempting to pacify the woman's defenses. "We just need to know, has Justine ever been to a dentist, or had a cavity filled?"

"No," Joan finally answered, sounding defeated. "No, she hasn't. Is'at all? You wanna tell me what an awful parent I am now for not takin' my kids to the dentist, or the doctor? We got one of Scott's teeth pulled when it got infected, but we cain't afford more'n that. E-mergencies only."

"Can we see a photograph of Justine, please?" Brennan asked, attempting her best soothing tone. She felt for this woman; she was obviously trying very hard to take care of her children, and keep social services from putting them into foster homes. That made her the hero of the day in Brennan's book.

"Sure," Joan said, disappearing into a room down the hall and returning with a framed photograph. She handed it to Brennan—it was a picture of a tall, solidly built young woman in a graduation cap and gown, holding a diploma and smiling broadly. She had obviously never had any orthodontic work done, and was far from thin, but she was nonetheless a pretty young girl. Brennan vocalized this thought.

"She's pretty," she said. For the first time, Joan attempted a weak smile.

"Thank you," she said, looking down at the photograph. "She's the first in the family to graduate high school. Never been more proud in all my days."

"Was she planning on attending college?" Brennan asked. Joan shook her head.

"Nah. We cain't afford that, and she didn't think she was smart enough to go anyway. I told her save up some money, go to community college, be a nurse. They need nurses; she could make good money like that. She don't know what she want, so she waits tables and works out on farms sometimes for some extra cash."

"Booth," Brennan said quietly, eyeing the girl's facial structure. "I can't be sure without a positive DNA match, but judging by the girl's facial structure and physical build, I think this is our fourth victim."

"Victim?" Joan said, stricken. Booth led her to the couch on the far wall, sitting her down and slowly explaining the situation. Brennan held the framed photograph in her hands and watched as the woman's small frame seemed to break beneath the weight of her pain, her tears coming freely, wracked with sorrow. A baby—presumably Roy Junior, the youngest—began to cry in a room down the hall, adding to the cacophony. The entire house wailed.

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**A/N:** And there it is. :) As I have said before, all of the "southernisms" in the story are as genuine as they come. I have either said, had said to me, or heard everything you have read in this chapter. And the coke thing is totally true, too - you can always tell someone who isn't from around here by the confused expression they get when they ask for a coke and you reply with, "What kind?" If any of them don't make sense to you, though, feel free to ask and I will be happy to function as a translator.

So, what are your thoughts on the case now, in light of the new information we have? Who do you like for it? How does the story feel to you so far? I looove reviews, so don't hesitate to write one and let me know! And I really will try harder to NOT wait 2 weeks between now and my next update... promise!


	7. If I Was Invisible

**A/N:** I didn't wait two weeks to update this time! Yay! xD I wanted to put a little bit of Cam in this chapter, so I did. Not much, but some. I love Cam, I think she's hysterically funny without even trying to be, and I fully intend on writing more of her in the future. Woohoo! So without further adieu, here is chapter seven. :) Oh, and be forewarned... I kick the creep factor into high-gear in the later part of this chapter. I mean after all, I did start this right before Halloween...

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"The DNA from Justine's hairbrush and the fourth victim's remains is a definite match," Cam said, causing Brennan to jump. She looked up from her desk and saw the woman's slender outline standing in her office doorway, holding up a sheet of paper dotted with rows of genetic markers. From the distance, they looked like musical notes on staff paper, rather than the basis of a human life.

"Okay, thanks Cam," Brennan said as Cam set the results on the corner of her desk. "I'll call Booth and let him know."

"Where is big man anyway?" Cam asked. "I thought he'd be here breathing down everyone's neck like he usually is." Brennan smiled, almost wickedly.

"He's out talking to the pumpkin farmer who owns the patch where the remains were discovered," Brennan said. The corners of Cam's lips turned upward.

"He's out talking to Pumpkin Pete? On his own?" she asked. Brennan nodded. "Did you at least send him out with a Hillbilly-to-English dictionary?" Brennan laughed.

"No, I didn't," she responded. "Though I should have. He told me he wanted to go back on his own, to get a feel for the people and, what was it… _scoop around_."

"Snoop, Dr. Brennan," Cam corrected. "To _snoop_ around. Doesn't he usually bring you with him for that?"

"He does," Brennan said. "But I wanted to look over the bones anyway, now that my temporary intern has debrided them, to see if there was anything I might not have been able to see with the flesh still on the bone. So he's out while I'm doing that, and when he comes back we'll confer and move forward from there."

"I see," Cam said, eyeing the doctor in the peculiar way she often did when Brennan talked about Booth outside of his presence. Brennan couldn't help but feel that Cam sometimes gave Brennan the same "reading" look that Booth gave suspects—like she was trying to ascertain some kind of deeper meaning from the doctor's words, something she knew without knowing, saw without seeing. "Well, I pulled up the background on our pumpkin farmer, I'll go ahead and give that to you so you can give it to him when you see him."

"What did you find out?" Brennan asked, taking the manila folder Cam handed her.

"Mostly minor stuff," Cam said. "The waitress you two spoke to in Kimball—Sadie?—she was pretty dead-on about him. He's no saint, but he's got no history of violence. Petty theft, a few drunk and disorderlies, illegal possession of a firearm, and he served thirteen months and then three years for making and selling shine in two different counties."

"Making and selling what?" Brennan asked.

"Shine. Moonshine," she clarified. "He was distilling corn whiskey on his back porch and selling it without a liquor license, and without paying the alcohol tax to the government. The first time around was in Appomattox county, which is dry—no liquor sales allowed period, even through the government—and his house was subject to civil forfeiture because he was using it for business. His sentence was five years, but he got off after thirteen months for good behavior. That was back in the eighties. In the early nineties he got caught again selling shine, in Powhatan county, and also got nailed for possession of a firearm by a felon."

"Making illegal whiskey is a felony?" Brennan asked, somewhat surprised. Cam nodded.

"It can be," she said. "Depends on where you are and how much you're making. Since Appomattox is a dry county, that's probably why he got hit with a felony instead of a misdemeanor. Second time around he got five years for the misdemeanor moonshine and the felony firearm possession."

"He didn't use the gun, did he?" Brennan asked.

"No," Cam said. "They found it in the house with the distillation paraphernalia, though. If you're already a felon, it doesn't matter whether you had intent to use the firearm or if it was just lying there—since you're not allowed to have it in the first place, it's an automatic felony charge." Brennan nodded, skimming over the other items in the report.

"So he's not violent, then… just stupid," Brennan surmised, and Cam nodded.

"That pretty much covers it, yeah," she agreed.

"Given the two, I suppose stupid is the lesser of two evils," Brennan said. Cam smirked.

"You would classify stupidity as an evil, Dr. Brennan," she said.

Meanwhile, standing on a crooked porch in the Virginia hills, Booth cracked his knuckles irritatedly.

"What do you mean, you want a lawyer?" Booth asked loudly, over the ferocious snapping of a pit bull's jaws. Pete hauled on the animal's thick leather collar, yanking him back into the house. He pushed the dog into an adjacent room, shutting the door behind him and wiping his brow. The animal lunged at the door, causing it to rattle in the frame, and Booth felt as though his personal safety was not significantly aided by the dog's confinement.

"Aw, don' worry, she ain't mean," Pete said, jerking his head towards the door where the dog, from the sound of things, was attempting to chew her way to freedom. "Princess jus' like comp'ny, s'all. Gets a mite bit 'cited, but she don't bite."

"Princess?" Booth asked. Pete grinned.

"M'niece named 'er," he explained. Booth thought he had never seen any creature look less like a _princess_, but he declined to make any further comment.

"Mr. Green," Booth said, "all I want is to ask you a few questions about Justine Cleary. Just some questions, that's all." Pete shook his head, leaning up against the screen door with his arms crossed.

"No-kin-do," he said, in a very friendly but stubborn tone. "Er'time I answer a cup'a questions, I ends up in bars."

"Mr. Green—"

"Pete," he offered, still very genial despite his opposition to Booth's request.

"—Pete," Booth corrected. "I don't want to arrest you, I just want to talk to you about Justine. If you're innocent, you have nothing to worry about."

"See, that thur's'ow y'all git hard-workin' folk like me in trouble," he said in one long, drawn-out collection of sounds that Booth could hardly comprehend. "Wit all y'all's sly-talkin' an' makin' things out like deyain't."

"Like… what?" Booth asked, somewhat confused. "I'm not trying to trick you, Pete. I just want to ask you about Justine. She used to do odd jobs for you around your land, and then she shows up dead here. It makes some people start to think."

"Dead?" Pete croaked, crinkled eyes widening. "I ain't know y'all meant she's dead, I jus'… Lord Almighty," he said, stumbling over to the rocking chair and collapsing into it. He took off his baseball cap and rubbed his bald head with his weathered hands, shaking it and mumbling to himself. When he looked up at Booth, his eyes glistened.

"One'a them people, them bodies in the field… was Justine?" he asked. Booth nodded grimly.

"We think so," Booth said. "My people are still making a positive DNA match, but we're quite certain. Now, Pete, can I ask you a couple of questions about Justine?" Pete nodded, resting his forehead in his hands and taking a deep breath.

"Yeah, g'on then," he said.

"How long had Justine been working around the pumpkin patch for you?" Booth asked.

"Pert'near six months," Pete answered. "She he'p me weed'n 'em an' keepin' the crows out 'n all. Mowed 'round the lawn too, good kid."

"Did Justine ever mention having any problems with anyone in the area?" Booth asked. Pete thought for a moment, then shook his head.

"Nope. Well…"

"Yes?"

"Well, she ain't told me this husself, but I hear a bit through the grapevine," Pete prefaced. "I heard 'bout Justine datin' Randy Finch, Denny's boy. He warn't worth eggs, ain't know shit from shinola."

"Was she having problems with Randy?"

"Er'body got problems with Randy Finch," Pete grumbled.

"How's that?" Booth asked, feeling slightly impatient. Getting anyone out here to elaborate on their statements was like asking the sun to rise—they went on their own time, and plenty of it.

"The boy ain't got a lick'a hard work in 'im. He don't go to school, don't work a job, mostly he just party an' fight."

"Do you think he ever fought with Justine?" Booth asked. Pete's face darkened.

"Do a bear shit in th'woods? Yeah, he hit 'er a few times, I seen the bruises," Pete said. "Not to say she ain't hit back, she come out better'a most fights than Randy ever did. But it don't matter, ain't right to hit women t'start with." Booth took note of that fact, nodding his head.

"Do you think it's possible that Randy might have had something to do with Justine's death?" Booth asked. Pete worked the inside of his mouth, then shook his head.

"He can get mean'r'n a cottonmouth, no doubt," Pete said. "But Randy ain't got it in 'im t'kill nobody. I took that boy huntin' with his daddy, firs' time he e'r went. Y'know what he done when he shot his firs' buck? Cried. The boy cried an' cried, caterwaulin' like a damn baby. His daddy even hit 'im an' he wouldn' stop cryin'. Never went huntin' again. He ain' a good man, sir, but he ain' kill nobody either." Booth wasn't so sure, but he acknowledged the man's response.

"We'll take that into consideration," he said. "Thank you, Pete. If we need anything else, we'll call." Pete nodded, and Booth turned on his heel to leave.

"Hey," Pete said, and Booth turned around.

"Yeah?"

"Justine was a real good girl. Work like an ox, ain't never do nuttin' t'hurt nobody. Sweet as pecan pie, an' smart too. She ain't think so, but Almighty, listenin' at her talk sometimes was jus' like hearin' out a dictionary or sump'n. If she'd'a e'r gone to college, she'd'a done good. Firs' in her family to graduate, y'know. Could'a been first one with a college diploma."

"I've heard that about her," Booth said with a smile, thinking about other women he knew who talked like they were reading out of a dictionary.

"Catch that sonofabitch," Pete said dangerously. "Catch 'im an' kill 'im. Justine ain't deserve that. So you catch 'im, an' if you don't kill that rat bastard, I tell you, I will." Booth decided it was best to ignore the man's latter statement, so instead he nodded his understanding and got in the car. As he drove down the winding dirt path away from the cracker man and his cracker home, his cracker dog let loose from the front door and chased the vehicle halfway down the road, snapping at the back bumper, hackles raised. _Sweet dog my ass,_ he thought, accelerating and leaving the canine in the dust clouds kicked up behind him.

It was early evening when Booth finally returned to the Jeffersonian, and most of the museum's employees had already left for the night. He had intended on leaving his notes on Brennan's desk and conferring with her the next morning, but when he walked into her office he noticed that her coat was still draped over the back of her chair, her purse slouched up against the edge of her couch. He smiled, dropping the notes on her desk and heading down the hall towards the platform.

Sure enough, that's where he found her, lab coat cinched around her waist and hair pulled up out of her vision, staring intently at a bone. What bone, he couldn't begin to tell you, but he knew it was a bone, and that it was probably one of Justine's. He thought again about the farmer's words—like talking out of a dictionary—and his smile fell. He didn't blame the farmer for a second for wanting the man dead; if someone so much as laid a finger on Brennan, he felt secure in saying that he could snap their neck without remorse. She was his partner; that's what partners do. Partners.

"Hey," he said as he swiped his card, ascending to on high. She did not remove her gaze from the long, thin bone before her.

"Look at this," sufficed as her greeting, and Booth did not take offense. After three years, he knew her idiosyncrasies well enough not to take it as an insult.

"What am I looking at?" he asked.

"This break here," she said, pointing to the jagged edge. "This is a defensive wound, not from a fall like I had previously assumed. Before I thought that she fell with her arms out, and simultaneously fractured the ulna and temporal bone, with the subtemporal hemorrhaging being the cause of death."

"You don't think so now?" Booth asked. She shook her head.

"I still think the subtemporal hemorrhage was the ultimate cause of death," she said. "But now I believe that her arms were still bound when she fell, bound _after _she broke her arm fighting off her attacker."

"So you think…" Booth said, mentally catching up. "You think that she engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the murderer, broke her arm in the fight, was overpowered by her attacker, had her wrists bound behind her, then somehow was able to run away, fall down the hill, hit her head, and died?"

"Precisely," Brennan said. "I think that's probably very close to what happened to her."

"It makes sense," Booth said. "Justine was a strong girl, she used to beat up her boyfriend, that Randy Finch kid. It would have taken a lot to overpower her with both of her arms working."

"You don't think Randy had anything to do with it, do you?" Brennan asked. Booth shrugged.

"I don't know," he said. "The farmer doesn't seem to think he's capable of it, but that doesn't mean anything. I'd like to find him and bring him in for questioning, see if I can get a read on him."

"You know, the farmer used to manufacture and sell illegal alcohol," Brennan said. Booth laughed.

"Really, Pete was a 'shiner?"

"You know about that too? That 'moonshine' business?"

"Yeah, Bones, that's how NASCAR got started," Booth said. "Shiners used to race through dry counties to transport their moonshine from place to place, so the faster your car, the less likely you were to get caught by the police."

"What's NASCAR?" Brennan asked. Booth grimaced.

"Seriously?" he asked. Brennan raised her brows at him.

"It's stock car racing, Bones. You know, the Daytona five-hundred… Talladega superspeedway… Dale Earnhardt Jr… shake-n-bake?" She continued to stare at him blankly, and he threw his hands up in mock defeat.

"Nevermind!" he said. "Nevermind. So anyway, Pete made moonshine. What else?"

"Everything Cam printed out is on my desk," Brennan said. "There were a few other things, but nothing major. She doesn't think he did it."

"Neither do I," Booth said. "But I do want to talk to that Randy kid, and to Elaine Blackwood's roommate Penny. That's the plan for tomorrow; maybe we can get something out of the roommate that will connect those three girls to the same place, or the same person."

"Maybe," Brennan said, stifling a yawn that threatened to contort the end of her word.

"Tired?" Booth asked. Brennan nodded.

"A little. I think I'm almost ready to leave," she said. "Are we doing dinner tonight?" Booth was slightly taken aback by her question, though after a moment of consideration, realized that it was not entirely out of left field—over the past week they had eaten most of their meals together, so it was a natural question to ask.

"Yeah, if you want to," he said casually, hoping she had not noticed his moment of mental lapse. "Pad Thai?"

"Actually, I have left overs at the house from when dad came over to eat the other night. I was hoping maybe you could help me finish them before they go bad and I have to throw them away."

"What kind?" Booth asked as they left the platform, stopping by Brennan's office to grab her belongings and his paperwork from her desk before they headed towards the parking garage.

"Vegetarian chili and squash casserole. Dad also brought over some ham too; he forgot that I don't eat meat. He left it, so I guess you can eat that."

"Sweet," Booth said, allowing the word to escape his lips before he could stop it. Brennan gave him an almost reprimanding look, and he grinned.

"You sound like Sweets," Brennan said. Booth made a faux-pained face.

"Don't say that," he said.

"It's the truth," she said.

"You and your truth," he said, shaking his head.

"What? You say that as if it's a bad thing," she said. He opened his mouth to rise to her banter, but when they stepped out into the parking garage, he immediately forgot whatever thought was in his mind.

"Oh, geez, here's some truth for you—it's cold as hell out here."

"That's ironic, given that in the Christian bible, hell is supposed to be a place of fire and brimstone," Brennan said.

"It's a figure of speech, Bones," Booth defended, rubbing his arms. "Let's get out of here."

They took their separate cars to Brennan's apartment complex, parking side by side outside of the building. Booth rubbed his hands together as they walked up the stairs to her floor, lamenting the lack of heat in the halls.

"This is a nice place, you'd think they would heat the…" he muttered, but stopped suddenly when Brennan opened the apartment door.

The inside of the apartment was plastered with paper. The walls, the countertops, the furniture, the floors, were covered in paper. Paper stapled, paper taped, paper laid out in rows. Some of the sheets had printed out photographs of Brennan—others had only words written in large point font, such as "beautiful" and "intelligent." Some of them had the word printed several dozen times, filling the entire sheet. Others had only one solitary word printed in the dead center of the page, standing alone.

Booth instinctively pulled Brennan to his side, wrapping his arm tightly around her shoulders. She turned and pressed her face into his chest, body trembling. He remembered the day they found a pool of blood in her kitchen, blood they believed to be Russ's—she had reacted the same way. Later she told him to stop allowing her to hug him when she was scared. He pulled her closer, thinking she would probably forgive him later for ignoring her years-old request.

"It's… it's okay," he said, searching for words—any words—in his head as his eyes traced the room. How had they gotten in? Were they still in the apartment? He kept one arm around her, and set his other hand on his gun, which was still holstered at his hip. He rarely took it off, and now he was glad for that. He closed and locked the apartment door behind them, temporarily releasing Brennan and securing the apartment, gun first. When he felt sure that they were alone in the apartment, he holstered the gun and returned to Brennan, who was still standing just inside of the door, arms wrapped around her, looking lost.

"How did they get in?" she asked when Booth returned to her, opening his arms. She readily stepped into his embrace, and he tucked her head beneath his chin, rubbing her back in long, easy strokes.

"I don't know," he said. "I called the police, they'll be here in a minute. Go get together a bag before they get here—you're staying with me tonight." She nodded, wiping her nose and hesitantly entering her bedroom. By the time the police had arrived, she had thrown together some clothes and toiletries, and she sat in the car while Booth stood within sight outside of the apartment building, briefing the head officer. The men shook hands and the officer entered her building, while Booth entered the car.

"I told him everything, they don't need us here anymore," he said, throwing the SUV into reverse. "Let's go." Brennan nodded, feeling too nauseous to open her mouth to speak, and watched the lights fly by the car's icy windows as they sped down the road towards Booth's house.

When they arrived at his house, he made Brennan a strong drink while she changed. She was sitting cross-legged on his couch in a pair of yoga pants and a Northwestern t-shirt when he came back, looking pale and troubled.

"Here," he said, handing her the drink and sitting next to her. "This will make you feel better." She took a sip and struggled to swallow.

"I feel sick," she said, setting the drink down on the coffee table. "Thanks anyway." He nodded, nursing his own drink and watching her out of the corner of his eye. She still shivered, like she was cold.

"We're going to find them," Booth said reassuringly, daring to put his arm around her again. She did not fight it, but leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"How did they get in?" she asked, voice strained.

"I don't know," Booth said. "I really don't. But tomorrow morning the officers at the scene will be able to tell us. Don't worry about it right now."

"They're out there," she said after a quiet pause. "Just… out there. I was never afraid of Epps, but this… I don't know how to explain it."

"They're faceless," Booth said. "They're like the things that go bump in the night; you can't see them, you don't know who they are. That's scary, you're allowed to be scared, Bones. But you don't have to be right now, okay? I've got you, so don't be afraid." She sighed and leaned further into him, and he rubbed her arm and shoulder in slow circles. After a while her breathing became deep and rhythmic, and he knew she had fallen asleep. He moved slowly out from underneath her, lowering her gently onto the couch cushions and covering her with a throw. He smoothed the hair away from her face, which even in sleep was tight with worry. His fingers traced along her cheek to her jaw line. He said a brief prayer over her, then turned off the lamp.

Before he went to sleep, he checked every door and window in the house, even the midget-sized one over the bathtub. There would be no unexpected visitors.

From the outside of the house, it was apparent as each light flicked off—the living room, the bathroom, the bedroom. The house was quiet. The house slept.

But there would be no rest for the wicked.

* * *

**A/N: **Uuuugh, I gave _myself_ chills there at the end. It doesn't help that it's 4:30 in the morning here (insomnia rocks... not) and very dark and quiet and spooky. Yikes! Anyway, Pete made another appearance! Yay Pete! I like him quite a bit. And I know you've ALL known that person with the devil dog - whether it's a Rottweiler or a Chihuahua - who insists that they're just _so sweet_ and _wouldn't hurt a fly_. Meanwhile you're trying to make sure all of your fingers stay intact! Also, please don't get me wrong in this chapter - I absolutely love pit bulls, and I think their bad rap is completely unfounded. But pit bulls are a southern delicacy; if it wasn't a hound dog on Pete's property, it would be a pit. :)

Soooo, your thoughts? Love it? Hate it? Creeped out? I love reviews, so make my day and leave me one letting me know what you think! :) Oh, and for my American readers, have a happy Thanksgiving on Thursday! (And for my non-American readers, just have a nice Thursday. :D) I've got a Thanksgiving-related OS bouncing around in my head that's just waiting to get written, so that will probably happen sometime tomorrow. I hope you'll read it!


	8. Still Our Hands Are Bound at the Wrist

**A/N:** I'm glad you guys got sufficient creep vibes at the end of the last chapter. Things are going to pick up and move a lot faster from here on out. We've been kind of moseying along up to this point, but now we're putting a little go in the get-up. I think there are only maybe 2 more chapters left... then I'm going to invest my time in some Christmas/holiday related stuff. :) I've already started one of my holiday fics, _The Twelve Bones of Christmas_. I think most of you guys have already read the first chapter, but if not, I think it's worth taking a look at. Of course I would think that.

At any rate, this chapter is a little short and mostly serves to get us from one place to the next. And to be frustrating. :) You'll see. Enjoy!

* * *

Booth awoke early the next morning just as the sun was rising, turning from one side to the other and feeling a muscle pull taunt in his back. He grimaced, putting his hand to the tensed area and rubbing it. _Slept the wrong way_, he thought to himself as he rolled out of bed, feet hitting the floor with a thud. It couldn't have been any later than six in the morning, but he was awake, and once Seeley Booth was awake, there was no going back to sleep.

He stumbled into the bathroom and rubbed his face vigorously with cold water, trying to force himself out of somnolence. He thought of Brennan sleeping on his couch, and was suddenly quite awake, in more ways than one. He decided to let her sleep in, knowing the previous night had been particularly stressful for her, and ran a cold shower.

Clean and dry, he threw on enough clothing to be decent—decent in front of his partner, anyway, which was more decent than his usual decent required—and opened his bedroom door. She would be aggravated if he let her sleep in too late; with her it was quite often damned if you do, damned if you don't. He approached the couch quietly, setting his hands on the sloping back and leaning over, expecting to see her still sleeping form curled up on the cushions.

Instead, there was a dried maroon stain where her head had laid, and she was gone.

"Bones?" Booth called out, his hands gripping the couch tightly. No response. He kicked the back of the couch, sending it scooting several inches.

"Temperance!" he called out again, hearing the strain in his own voice. Still nothing. He began tearing through the house, throwing open doors, tossing back covers, as if he were playing a very intense game of hide-and-go-seek. He continually called her name, his voice growing more unnerved, more demanding of an answer—_Be here, damnit,_ he thought to himself as he threw open the door to Parker's room, thinking beyond all rational hopes that she might have curled up in the little boy's dinosaur sheets when the couch got uncomfortable. Or when she got a massive nosebleed that left a palm-sized bloodstain on the couch. The door banged against the stopper sticking out of the wall and swung back at him, but he didn't notice. All he noticed was the pristine emptiness of the room. It had been his last hope.

"I'm calling to report an abduction," Booth said tersely into the phone receiver, yanking the car into reverse and pealing out of his driveway. "Yes, I'm sure, I'm FBI. Yes. Dr. Temperance Brennan."

_Ow._

It was the first cohesive thought that ran through Brennan's throbbing head. The pain was immense, so much that she could not bear to open her eyes. And it was only exacerbated by the fact that she was being bounced around in a confined area like a rag doll. As her senses began to awaken, to sharpen, she observed as much about where she was as possible.

It was dark. It smelled like gasoline. _Oh God, I'm in a trunk._ There was road noise; she was definitely in a car, and it was moving fast. Highway speed. She wiggled her fingers and toes, and found that they were all in working order—she was not paralyzed, and none of her limbs appeared broken. She licked her lips and tasted a bitter metallic taste, like iron—blood. So that's why her head hurt.

Her wrists were bound behind her back, and she was positioned on her side, her knees pulled up to her chest. She tried to yank her wrists apart, but the bindings were tight, cutting into her flesh. It felt like twine, like what the farmer would bale his hay with. Maybe Booth had been wrong; maybe it was the farmer after all.

She attempted to kick her legs, but they were also secured at the ankles, and again around her thigh just above her knees. She could only wriggle like an inchworm, unable to make any real progress with her movements. The vehicle began to slow, and she slid to the opposite end of the fairly large trunk, hitting the far end with a thud. Her hands crunched behind her, and she made a pained growling sound. She would not yell out. If her abductor thought she was dead or unconscious, it would be better for her. She could still, if nothing else, have the element of surprise.

She slipped her hands under her butt, down around her ankles, so that they were now bound in front of her rather than behind. Whoever her abductor was, they had not done the intelligent thing and bound her elbows together—she was able to make her arms a wide enough hoop to maneuver through, giving her better control over what parts of her body she could move.

She used her elbows to position herself so that her feet were against the trunk door, which unfortunately did not open from the inside. The car must not be a very recent model—most cars made within the past five years had inside release hatches, handy in situations such as these. So her abductor was poor, or cheap, or old. Or just liked old cars. She wasn't getting anywhere—Booth was better at these guesses, these _intuitive leaps_ as he liked to call them. For her, they were just psychobabble, nothing particularly helpful. What would have been helpful would be her phone, or better, a gun. She had neither.

The vehicle suddenly turned upward, as if it were scaling an incline. She braced herself against the trunk with her feet, and suddenly a vivid mental image flashed across her mind—the hill she and Booth had climbed on Pete's property. It was the farmer. It had to be the farmer. The trees, the wooded area that bordered the property—if Hodgins took samples of the plant material found on the victims, she was willing to bet anything that he could match it to those woods. The farmer took the girls to the woods, beat them up and killed them—but why? —and dumped their bodies in the pumpkin patch.

But that didn't make sense. Why kill them, without sexually assaulting them? What was the point for the farmer? And why take the girls all the way up to the woods, just to drag them back down to the field? Brennan gritted her teeth; she was really awful at this, this positing scenarios. She needed Booth here. He knew people—she knew science.

The car drove downhill for a while, then up another incline. Suddenly it felt as if they had veered off of the main road, for the vehicle bucked wildly as it crossed the unforged path. Finally, when Brennan was feeling considerably rattled, the vehicle made a sudden stop. She heard the engine cut off, and her heart leaped into her throat—the door opened, then closed. She heard footsteps come around the side of the car, then suddenly a key jammed into the trunk lock. She positioned her feet immediately inside of the trunk door, ready for her abductor. The element of surprise.

When the trunk door opened and daylight flooded Brennan's vision, she did not pause to take a look at her abductor—instead, she kicked as hard as she could in the direction of the first moving thing she saw before her. She made solid contact with the person, who let out a surprised yell, followed by a howl of pain as her heels collided with their jaw. They fell backwards, hitting the leaf litter with a thud. Brennan squirmed up over the edge of the trunk, but without the ability to use her legs as separate entities, she was only able to take a few hops before she was knocked down to the ground, her face pressed into the dirt.

She attempted to roll over, but as soon as she did, a foot made contact with her face.

Everything was black again.

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, you'll find out who it is next chapter. :) Leave a review and let me know what you think!


	9. Just Like We Always Do

**A/N:** This is why I don't like writing cliffhangers - they make me feel the urge to update that much faster! I'm sure you don't mind the rapid succession of chapters, though. :) There will be one more chapter after this one, to kind of take care of some things, and then an epilogue. Then I will throw myself head-first into my long list of "potentials" that I have the ideas sketched out for but have not written yet! And because someone asked... yes, one of those "potentials" is _finally_ finishing up _The Hands in the Snow_.

That said, enjoy the chapter. :)

* * *

"The blood on the couch was definitely Dr. Brennan's," Cam said, handing Booth the DNA match results, which he barely looked at before setting them aside on Brennan's desk. He had been sitting in her chair at her desk, arranging and rearranging the items on its surface in an attempt to calm himself while he waited for Cam's results. It hadn't worked.

"Great," was all he said, pressing the corners of his eyes with his thumb and index finger and breathing in deeply. He had to stay together—him falling apart would do nothing to help the team find Brennan. The police had investigated every nook and cranny of his house, top to bottom, and found absolutely no sign of forced entry. It was as if someone had simply let themselves into the house, or had been let in. He couldn't wrap his head around it, and it made him crazy—this was his house, his fortress. How did they get in, how did they get Bones and leave without him even knowing? He prided himself on his keen senses, and they had certainly been on edge last night; if she had shouted, or fought, or given any indication that she had been in trouble, he would have woken up. He was sure he would have woken up.

"It's not your fault, Seeley," Cam said gently, placing a hand on his tense shoulder. "I know you're thinking it is, but it's not."

"She was in my house, Cam. I was supposed to keep her safe," he responded, his voice gritty. Cam closed her eyes, letting her chin drop to her chest.

"You tried. I know you, Booth, and I know you probably checked every window and door in that entire house. Even the little midget one in the bathroom, just to make sure she'd be safe." Booth stood up suddenly, turning to face Cam, and she realized that there were two distinct wet lines on his face.

"It wasn't enough," he said, clenching his jaw and staring up at the corner of the ceiling. "It just wasn't enough."

There's a moment when you're under water, as you come floating to the surface. You can't see or hear anything occurring above the water—it's a blur. There are no lines or distinct sounds, just actions that you are vaguely aware of. As you come closer to the surface, the sounds become louder, better formed, and you get a sense of awareness; where you are, what is going on around you.

Then you break the surface, and you're back.

Brennan opened her eyes, then immediately shut them; they hurt, a lot. She blinked several times, and they watered profusely, obviously trying to clear out some foreign matter. She parted her lips to call out to someone, anyone, as she was presently alone—but realized her mouth was filled with dirt. In fact, as she looked down at herself, her entire front was covered in dirt. The skin on her face and arms was raw, and as she thought about it, she had probably been dragged a considerable distance—the car was nowhere in the immediate area that she could see. All she could see were trees, and more trees.

She was tied around a mid-sized trunk, her arms wrapped backwards around it but not able to touch. A rope pulled them tightly against the bark, and her shoulders ached horribly. Her legs, still bound, were stretched out in front of her, and entirely useless—all she could do was kick up dirt. _Great._

Suddenly she heard the sounds of life, coming from behind her. Not directly, but far off, like someone walking up a hill. She craned her neck in an attempt to look around the side of the tree, but it was too wide. The footsteps were slow and lazy, feet shuffling through the leaves, as if made by someone with nowhere to go and nothing to do. When her abductor came into view, the woman looked surprised to see that Brennan was awake.

"Damnit," Brennan swore under her breath, taking in the woman's macabre appearance, from her deeply scarred face to her non-existent ear.

"You didn't think I was going to just leave you here, did you?" Peggy asked, almost cheerfully. The crack in her voice, the strain in her tone—Brennan was not a people-reader like Booth, but she could tell there was something… what would he say… _unscrewed_ about her. Much like the way Angela got when she had too much coffee in the morning, but in a dangerous way.

"How did you get into the house?" Brennan asked, not entirely shocked by the revelation of her abductor. She had felt it from the beginning.

"Well," Peggy said, unloading an armful of thumb-width sticks into a pile on the ground. "That rock outside of Agent Booth's house wouldn't fool anyone."

"I told him that," Brennan grumbled.

"It was almost too easy," Peggy lamented, organizing some of the sticks into a triangular pattern. "You're an intelligent woman, Dr. Brennan, you understand what I mean. Minds like ours, they need stimulation. They need competition."

"Minds like ours?" Brennan asked, somewhat incredulous. "I would hardly put us in the same category."

"You would think that," Peggy said bitterly. "A beautiful woman like you, and intelligent. The complete package. You would be arrogant too."

"It's not arrogance," Brennan argued. "You are obviously insane, and I am not." Peggy looked down at the woman, arms akimbo.

"Considering that I currently hold your life in my hands, Dr. Brennan, and you're insulting me from the ground tied to a tree, I would say that you're at least a little insane. And I'm not crazy."

"Not crazy?" Brennan asked, trying to wriggle her wrists free of the bindings while she had Peggy's attention elsewhere. The knots were incredibly tight.

"Not at all," Peggy said. "This world is crazy, Dr. Brennan, but I'm not. I see more truth than most perfectly 'sane' people out there. I see things differently. I understand them. People like you… you just don't get it." Brennan's stomach flopped—the way Peggy spoke, it was like listening to Zack talk about Gormogon. That inane psychobabble that cost so many people their lives… that could, very realistically, cost her hers.

"Ms. Rosagualda," Brennan said, still fighting her bindings and feeling the rope bite at her skin. "I assure you, there is nothing I am incapable of comprehending. There are very few logical concepts, if any, that I 'don't get'. So please, enlighten me."

"You see, that's your problem," Peggy explained, taking the remaining sticks and shaping them into an upright cone, much resembling a teepee or pyramid, over the triangle laid out on the ground. "You think you're so smart, you think you're so beautiful, you just bulldoze over everyone else out there because they aren't as good as you."

"That's not true," Brennan said, but Peggy pointed at her as soon as she did.

"You see," she said, eyes wide. "That's it! You don't even think my opinion is valid because you don't think I'm as intelligent as you, you don't think I'm capable of the same kind of higher thinking. And stop fighting those ropes; those knots aren't coming undone anytime soon. I was a girl scout until I was sixteen."

"How did Justine escape?" Brennan asked. Peggy gave her a peculiar look.

"Who?" she asked.

"The last girl you killed, the girl who walked in on you killing Elaine. You fought her, broke her arm, then tied her up. But she got away. How?"

"How in the hell did you figure all that out?" Peggy asked as she stuffed smaller twigs and clumps of Spanish moss underneath the cone of sticks.

"That's my job," Brennan said.

"You weren't just being egomaniacal when you said you were the best in your field, then," Peggy said.

"I am not an egomaniac!" Brennan exclaimed, thoroughly perturbed by this woman's accusations.

"Egomaniacs don't think they're egomaniacs," Peggy said. "They just think nature gave them a special skill set, or that God made them smarter, or more beautiful, and that's just how it is. The only skill set people like you have, Dr. Brennan, is to ridicule and subjugate the rest of us."

"But I was right," Brennan persisted. "She got away, after you broke her arm. How?"

"Did you see pictures of that girl, Dr. Brennan? I mean, before she was dead. She was an ox. Even one-armed she was almost as strong as me with two—I could hardly get one good set of knots done without getting my teeth knocked out. Something you managed to take care of," she said, baring her teeth and spreading her lips back—where the two middle front incisors used to protrude from her lower gum line, there was a large gap. Brennan felt slightly self-satisfied.

"You won't be looking all smug like that here in a little bit," Peggy threatened, shoving more tinder underneath the fortress of sticks.

"Are you going to kill me?" Brennan asked. She posed the question as if she were having a totally rational, logical scientific conversation with a co-worker. Peggy smiled.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I am going to kill you, Dr. Brennan."

"Why?" she asked, giving the bindings around her wrist another good yank. Nothing.

"Because it will send my message to the world, loud and clear," Peggy declared. "Women like you run the world, Dr. Brennan—intelligent, beautiful, captivating. You manipulate everyone around you, men in particular, to get what you want. The world is your plaything, and it's not right."

"Don't you think that's a little rich, for a serial killer to pass judgment on the moral fiber of society?" Brennan scoffed.

"There you go, you're doing it again," Peggy said. "Nothing I say is valid. Because I am ugly, because of this—" She laid a finger on the deep scar disfiguring half of her face. "—and this—" She pulled back her black curls and revealed the open cavity on the side of her skull. "—society will never view me as valid, as worthy of its acknowledgment. It will never see me as a real woman."

"Maybe your standing in society would be heightened if you didn't kill people," Brennan suggested, now trying to pull the twine hard enough to snap it in the middle, since the knots were, as Peggy had said, not coming undone anytime soon. "In fact, I'm quite sure of it."

"Women like you have to be disposed of," Peggy said. "Women like you set goals impossible for the rest of us to achieve, and because of you, we fail. Women like me will be failures for the rest of our lives because of women like you."

"I can't help that the phenotypic expression of my genetic inheritance has given me physical traits that are currently perceived as sexually desirable in Western society," Brennan argued, feeling her wrist pop in and out of place as she tried vainly to snap the twine. "It was no decision of mine, believe me. I don't want to be a sexy scientist." Peggy threw her head back and laughed.

"Sexy scientist, oh that's cute," she said, pulling a lighter out of her back pocket and setting a clump of Spanish moss ablaze. She threw it into the center of the tinder pile, watching it quickly come alive. "Did you think of that one yourself?"

"No," Brennan said. "That's what my partner called me."

"Ah, Agent Booth," Peggy said, and judging by the twitch in the undamaged side of her face, Brennan had stroked a sensitive nerve. "Men like Agent Booth value women like you, Dr. Brennan, more than they should. The perfect body, the sex icon. Agent Booth is an attractive man—naturally he would value a woman whose sexual attractiveness equaled his own."

"Booth isn't attracted to me," Brennan said, almost cautiously. "We're just partners."

"You don't have to lie to me, Dr. Brennan," Peggy said, the growing flames reflecting in her eyes as she watched patiently. "I won't tell anyone. And after today, neither will you."

"I still don't understand something," Brennan said, trying to keep Peggy talking. The more she talked, the slower she worked, and the more time Booth would have to find her. She knew Booth would find her… eventually. "After you killed the girls, you drove them all the way down to Pete's pumpkin patch. Why? You knew it was only a matter of time before they would be found."

"Exactly," Peggy said, stoking the flames with a stick as she added more tinder material. "People would see them. People would see beautiful women, dead. The news would be plastered with their photographs—pretty girls, attractive girls, sexy girls, all dead. The message comes out, loud and clear. It's not safe to be pretty or sexy. Pretty, sexy girls get the ax. It's better to be modest, to be humble. A little ugly, even, would be preferable. Then we could be seen for who we really are, and what we can really do—not for a cup size or a waist measurement."

"So it's not smart girls, then," Brennan said. "Just physically attractive ones."

"It's not a matter of just being pretty or just being smart, or even being both," Peggy explained. "It's women who have an advantage over other women, and take advantage of that lift up. It's women who quash others beneath them in the social food chain, in order to manipulate and deceive and get what they want from the men who worship them."

"I see," Brennan said. "And you feel that you are one of those quashed women at the bottom of the social ladder, then?"

"I am," Peggy said. "I always have been, ever since the accident."

"The one that left you disfigured?" Brennan asked. Peggy tensed, jabbing the fire roughly and sending sparks whooshing up into the air.

"Yes," she said tersely. "The one that damaged my face. I was five years old."

"How did you get it?" Brennan asked. Peggy sat on her knees before the fire, watching it grow as she answered.

"When I was four, my father walked out on my mom. He fell in love with another woman—one more beautiful, more intelligent than my mother—and she convinced him to leave us. He did. After that, my mother began dating other men, and started seeing one man in particular for several months. He was an alcoholic, violent, but she was so destroyed by my father leaving that she felt she could do no better, so she stayed with him.

"One night he came home after a long day of drinking, angry and stupid. He took a kitchen knife and walked around until he found something alive—me—to go after. He attacked me, and I was unconscious from the blood loss by the time my mother stopped him. I woke up the next day in the hospital, most of my face bandaged up, unable to move any of the muscles above my neck. Eventually I gained back most of my control, but the scars never healed. I was lucky to be alive, they said. I didn't feel that way." Brennan listened quietly, feeling something—was it sympathy?—for the woman. Logically she shouldn't have felt anything but hatred and fear in regards to her abductor, but on a human level, she did feel sadness for her childhood plight.

"What happened to the man who did that to you?" Brennan asked.

"My father killed him," Peggy answered simply. "He died in prison about six years ago, from a heart attack."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Brennan said, more out of courtesy than anything.

"He deserved it," Peggy replied. "Just like you."

"We're making a lot of assumptions here, but just go with it," Cam said as she, Booth, Angela, Hodgins, and their intern-of-the-week stood before the Angelator.

"As long as it's fast, I don't care," Booth said, squeezing the life out of a stress ball he had found in Brennan's office.

"Okay. Based on where the bodies were located, and the plant particulates found on the remains, I narrowed the location of the murders to this area of woods on the edge of the farmer's land," Angela explained, bringing up a topographical map with a large polygon outlined and shaded red.

"That's gotta be at least a hundred square miles," Booth said, eyes flicking back and forth from the map to Angela's face just beyond it. "There's no way FBI can search all that in time."

"There's more," Hodgins said. "Powhatan County, Virginia is located in the Virginia Piedmont area, in what is known topographically as the Central Piedmont division. The area is characterized by hills ranging from bumps in the road up to four-hundred meters in height."

"And how does that help us find Brennan?" Booth asked shortly.

"It helps," Hodgins explained, "because the Piedmont area in general suffers some of the most extreme soil erosion in the nation. Topographers keep close tabs on soil levels all over the Piedmont basin, so there's a wealth of information to be had. By taking soil samples from the victim's remains and matching the levels of certain minerals to the national database, I was able to take into account both the pollen spores that gave us this—" he pointed to Angela's map, shaded in red, "—and the new information from the soil, and narrow it down to this." The red area shrunk to a small hourglass shaped area about half an hour outside of where Kimball would be on the map, if Kimball were indeed on the map.

"Now _that_ I can work with," Booth said. "Cam, call our guys and tell them where to start looking."

"Where are you going?" she asked as he bolted for the exit.

"I'm going to keep a promise I made to a farmer," he said grimly, subconsciously touching the gun holstered at his hip.

In the woods, the blaze had reached almost frightening proportions. Peggy had continued to build it up in silence, with Brennan only able to watch, mildly horrified, as the fire grew. It started as what could have easily passed as a campfire, for roasting marshmallows and telling ghastly but ultimately fake stories. Now the pile of logs that powered the blaze was nearly waist high, the flame reaching well over Peggy's head.

"I am going to cook you," she said pleasantly after nearly an hour of silence between the two women, her voice raised slightly over the roar of the flames as she tossed on another thick branch. "I am going to break your legs so you cannot run, break your arms so you cannot crawl, and burn you alive. Like a witch."

"I don't think you should do that," Brennan said, trying her best to feign calmness, rationality. But she could not hide the way her voice cracked, despite her forced coolness.

"You wouldn't," Peggy responded, suddenly laughing. "I'll be back." Then she walked away, heading off in the direction from which she came, leaving Brennan alone with the massive fire burning before her.

It was terribly unnerving, being tied up before the fire in which you would ultimately burn to death. Brennan felt suddenly like she would be sick, and realized dismally that she would only be able to vomit onto herself, since she could not turn in either direction. She gritted her teeth, forcing the bile back down into her stomach, and groaned.

Where was Booth? Would they be able to find her? Eventually they would, she was sure—after she had been burned to death, the rest of her remains would undoubtedly be deposited in the pumpkin patch, just like those of the other girls. A display to the world. She would much prefer to be found before it came to that, though.

She looked up through the tree canopy, which was sparse. Most of the leaves had reddened and fallen from the trees, littering the ground around her. She could see the irreverently blue sky above her—it did not care that she was about to die, that she needed help and nobody could help her. It would remain a gorgeous shade of blue nonetheless. It was the kind of sky Booth would stop and stare at when they walked outside, awed by the depth of color, the endlessness of its reach.

_I knew he was wrong,_ Brennan thought to herself, eyes burning as she stared up into the sky. _There is no God. There is no God to help me, to help those girls. We are ultimately alone in the universe._ And with that thought, with that utter loss of hope, she began to cry.

"I guess it finally sank in?" Peggy asked, returning with an aluminum baseball bat resting easily on her shoulder. "That you're going to die? You finally realized that this isn't all just a sick, twisted game? Your boyfriend—your partner, your sex toy, whatever he is—he's not going to find you. He's not going to rescue you. Now you know how it feels, Dr. Brennan, to be alone in this world." Brennan blinked hard, looking up incredulously at the woman. _Now_ she knew what it was to be alone? Just now, after everything she had endured in her life?

"You have no idea," she hissed, shaking her head and watching Peggy spin the bat on its end.

"I don't, do I?" Peggy said. "Maybe you're right. It must be so lonely at the top, when you're better than everyone else. When nobody measures up to your standards. When even the most perfect man will never be good enough for you. How sad. I feel for you, really I do. Let me show you just how much."

Peggy raised the bat over her head like an ax, ready to bring it down and split Brennan's skull. Her eyes swollen and burning, her skin raw, her muscles stiff and aching, she felt martyred. She looked up directly into the woman's eyes, knowing this would be her dying vision. Her last memory. Her last moment. Her last breath.

In the pure moment before the fall, when the irreverent sky laughed and the hands of the fire reached up to it, pleading, she could have sworn she saw remorse in the woman's eyes.

But when she hit the ground—one precise, neat hole opening up the back of Peggy's skull—whatever Brennan had seen there before was gone.

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**A/N:** Like I said, we've got one more chapter to go. :) Leave a review and let me know what you think!


	10. A Hope Beyond My Own

**A/N:** This is it, the final chapter! I think I got everything sufficiently wrapped up here, but I could be wrong... after all, it is 3 o'clock in the morning and I did just work a double shift, my brain is a little woozy. I really appreciate everyone's support in this fic, reading it and reviewing it and putting it on your story alerts list so you could keep up with it. It makes me feel great as a writer, like I'm doing something right, and I wouldn't have that without you guys. So thanks for being great readers! Tomorrow I will start investing my efforts into Christmas-related shots and my _Twelve Bones of Christmas_ fic, now that I've got this one wrapped up. I've already written two holiday shots, _Burn the Bird, Save the Strays_ for Thanksgiving and _Shadow Proves the Sunshine_ for Christmas. If you haven't read either of those yet, and you like what you've read here, you aught to check them out. :)

Now that I'm done shamelessly plugging for my other fics, enjoy this final chapter, and thanks again for reading.

* * *

Brennan watched Peggy's motionless body on the ground; waiting for her to spring up, turn over, make a sound, anything. But she did not. She was quite dead, blood dribbling out of the hole in the back of her skull. It soaked into her hair, then into the parched dirt beneath her.

She tore her eyes away from the body and looked up in the direction the shot came from. At first she saw nothing; then, padding up over the hill's crest, a thickly built brown dog. She could easily identify the animal as a pit bull—its neck was nearly as thick as its chest, and its legs were slightly bowed from carrying its muscular bulk. It waddled slightly as it approached Brennan, but when it caught the scent of Peggy's blood, she quickly realized just how little fat was on the dog, and how much of its mass was lean muscle. It froze, tail pointing in the air, short hairs raised. Growling, it approached the body, sniffing at the air as it took a few tentative steps towards it. The dog sniffed the body, and, once satisfied that there was no threat, turned its attention towards Brennan.

_Great,_ she thought, as the dog stretched its short neck out to sniff her foot. She could do nothing to hold back the dog as it approached her face, sniffing up the length of her body as it came closer and closer to her. If it suddenly attacked, she would be defenseless. The dog pressed its cold nose up against her neck, inhaling her scent deeply. She tensed, feeling its lips part slightly. It moved its nose up to her cheek, then to her ear, blowing cold air and dog snot into her ear canal as it sniffed excitedly.

Then, slowly, the dog licked her face. It was not a wild or excited gesture, but a gentle one—the dog cleaned each of the wounds on her face, the broad scrapes and deep scratches, like it would its pup. At first it burned, but then it felt soothing. The dog jumped to attention, however, when they both heard a man's voice.

"Princess!" he yelled, coming out from around the trees and into view.

Pete.

He held a twenty-two-caliber revolver in his right hand, eyes wide as he approached Peggy's lifeless body. He eyed the hole in the back of her skull, shaking his head sadly.

"I didn't wanna kill 'er," he said sadly, looking up from Peggy's body to Brennan's eyes. She could see his true remorse.

"You saved my life," Brennan said forcefully. Pete didn't respond, but instead went around to the back of the tree where Brennan was bound. She heard the telltale sound of a buck knife opening, and then felt the taunt ropes binding her arms release. She stifled a moan as she felt the immense ache in her arms as she brought them slowly to her sides, feeling the blood rush into the twisted muscles. Pete knelt down on the ground next to her and cut the bindings on her legs, helping her to her feet.

"How did you find me?" Brennan asked, barely able to move her stiff shoulders and arms. Her legs wobbled beneath her, but she quickly regained control of them.

"Smoke," he said, looking up to the sky. "That's one helluva fire she got goin'. Saw it from the house, thought somethin' might be up. Thought I'd come take a looksee."

"I'm glad you did," Brennan said, wondering how she could have ever doubted the farmer's character for even a moment.

"Let's get you back to the house," Pete said, pocketing the knife and glancing down once more at Peggy's body. "We can call the am-bue-lance from there."

"I don't need emergency care," Brennan insisted, looking down at her arms. The skin was rubbed raw and pink, packed with dirt and scabbed over. She looked as if she had been dragged up the entire hill. "I just want to call my partner."

"Whatever you say," Pete conceded, leading the way through the woods back to his farm, leaving Peggy's body and the burning fire behind.

It had been nearly an hour since she had spoken to him on the phone, and she expected it to be another hour before he arrived. It was quite a long way out from D.C. to drive. So, when she heard the familiar engine rumble and looked to the dirt road to see the large black Toyota kicking up clouds of dirt behind it, she was pleasantly surprised. Booth drove nearly up onto the front porch, jumping on the brakes within feet of the house and throwing the car into park. He slammed the door behind him and covered the remaining ten feet between himself and Brennan in three giant strides.

She stood to meet him as he approached, and he did not hesitate to pull her into his arms when he got there. Her body ached all over and her raw skin burned, but she hugged him back as hard as she could. He pressed her against his large frame with one hand, smoothing her hair with the other as he rested his chin on top of her head.

"I am so sorry," he croaked, unable to make his voice perform at full capacity. She pulled her head back, looking up into his eyes. They were quite wet.

"For what? Booth, she—"

"I should have protected you," he said. "I should have and I didn't. If it wasn't for me you wouldn't have ever… this wouldn't have…"

"Booth, don't say that," Brennan pleaded. "It's not your fault. It's not."

"Please just forgive me," he said.

"But you didn't do anything wrong."

"Temperance, please. Forgive me. I need you to do that." He looked down hard at her, and she swallowed loudly, feeling the intensity radiate off of him. The way his hands held her lower back, the relief in his eyes clouded with residual fear. The pain.

"Okay... I forgive you," she said quietly, resting her cheek against his chest. She both heard and felt him release a deep breath, and both of his arms wrapped around her again. After a few minutes he removed one of his hands from around her waist and held it to her face, brows furrowed as his eyes flicked across her skin.

"Your face…" he said, stroking it with his thumb. She winced, and he removed his hand quickly.

"I was dragged," she explained. "Or, I think I was. My arms too," she said, stepping back and holding her arms out for Booth to see. They were as scratched and scabbed as her face, and ground with dirt.

"Where's the ambulance? Why didn't the EMT come?" he asked, concerned and a little edgy.

"I didn't call them, I don't need…"

"Temperance! You're hurt, you need medical care," he chastised, pulling out his phone.

"Booth," she said, reaching out and snapping his phone shut. "I don't want them here. I don't need them. I… we have to get rid of the gun."

"The what?" Booth asked.

"The gun, the one Pete shot Peggy with," Brennan explained. Booth sighed, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Right. Pete shot Peggy, using the gun he wasn't legal to have. He had been so preoccupied with seeing that Brennan was okay with his own eyes, being able to hold her in his arms and know she was safe… he hadn't once thought about the legality of the situation.

"Pete won't go to jail for killing Peggy," Booth said. "He saved your life."

"I don't want to get him tangled up in a big legal procession," Brennan said. "I don't want him to go to jail, to… he saved my life, Booth. Please just make this go away." Booth sighed.

"Okay," he said, pulling Brennan to his chest and kissing the top of her head. It was unexpected and uncalled for, but neither of them fought it or acted surprised by the action. "I'll take care of it. He'll be okay. We'll all be okay now."

"Won't they match the bullet hole to Pete's revolver?" Brennan asked. She was sitting on the lid of Booth's toilet in one of his Steelers t-shirts and a pair of basketball shorts, while he retrieved a bag of cotton balls and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the medicine cabinet. There had been no arguing about her coming home with him—she wouldn't have tried, and he wouldn't have allowed it even if she had.

"I'm taking care of it," Booth said vaguely, unscrewing the cap and soaking a cotton ball. She had taken a shower earlier and attempted to scrub most of the dirt out of her wounds, but Booth would not be satisfied until he had made sure they were properly disinfected.

"By taking care of it, you mean…?" she asked, eyeing him warily as he brought the soaked cotton ball to her cheek.

"I told you before, don't worry about it," he said. "Now close your eyes, it won't sting."

"I know it won't, Booth," she said, but it did not stop her from resisting. She finally shut her eyes and allowed him to swab the raw parts of her cheeks, chin, nose, and forehead. The peroxide bubbled in the deeper wounds, eating away at whatever particles of dirt might be left in the wounds.

"I can do this myself, you know," she said as he dabbed Neosporin onto the tip of his ring finger, smoothing a thin layer of the goop onto her cuts.

"You're the one who wouldn't call the ambulance," Booth chastised, finishing up on her face.

"Because it's not that serious, and besides, I didn't want—"

"I know, I know," Booth said, holding his hand up. "You didn't want to get the police involved until you talked to me, I got it. I understand. Now give me your arm." She grudgingly held her forearm out and Booth rolled back the sleeve on the shirt, which nearly came down to her elbows. He had intended on stopping by her apartment to let her pick up some things, but she had fallen asleep in the SUV on the ride home, and he couldn't bring himself to wake her. He had received full hell for his decision once she awoke.

"I took that key out from in front of the house," Booth said as he swabbed peroxide over the cuts on her arm, the two of them watching the white bubbles fizz in her wounds.

"Booth," Brennan said gently. "It's not your fault."

"I put the key out there. I left it out there. It's my fault," he said stubbornly, and not without a hint of guilt. He continued to cleanse the scrapes with the cotton ball, rubbing it up and down her arm in gentle strokes.

"Booth, she was insane, clinically psychotic. She would have found a way in whether that key was there or not. You can't blame yourself. Not when I don't." He smiled up at her, and she smiled back. They held each other's gaze for a while, until he looked down at her knees, his neck flushed.

"Thanks," he said, focusing on disinfecting her other arm. "I just feel like I failed you."

"You could never fail me," Brennan said, suddenly and powerfully. The breath caught in her chest; she had surprised herself with that statement. Not that it wasn't true, it just wasn't something she had intended on saying.

"I have a question for you," Brennan said, following a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"What's that?" Booth asked, screwing the cap back onto the peroxide and leaning up against the sink.

"Am I… am I an egomaniac?" Brennan asked, the words rushing out in a quick jumble.

"What? No, of course not. Why?" Booth asked. Brennan looked down at her feet, tracing circles on the tile with her toe.

"It's just something Peggy said, up there," Brennan said quietly. "It made me think."

"You're letting slander from a serial killer mess with your head? That's not the Temperance Brennan I know," Booth said gently, placing his finger beneath her chin and lifting her eyes up to meet his.

"She said… she said that women like me subjugate women like her, that we manipulate men to get what we want and stay on top of the social food chain," Brennan explained, diverting her glance despite his efforts to hold her gaze.

"Temperance, you are possibly the least manipulative person I've ever met in my life," Booth said. "Manipulation would require the ability to lie, to omit the truth. Manipulators are sneaky people. You aren't sneaky, and you don't lie. In fact, I don't think you're capable of a lie. You're too obsessed with the truth."

"I just don't like being lied to, is all," Brennan said. "Why would I lie to other people, if I don't want to be lied to?"

"That," Booth said, crouching down so that his face was level with Brennan's, his fingers still resting on the underside of her chin, "is why you are neither manipulative, nor egomaniacal. You just don't have it in you." Their eyes caught fire, each unable to look away from the blaze roaring in the other. That fire brought another thought to mind.

"She said I view everyone as not measuring up to my standard," Brennan admitted. "She said I would…" She gulped, then forced herself to continue. "She said I would even let the perfect man go, thinking he wasn't good enough for me." She stared intently at Booth, her eyes begging the question she would not ask. He breathed in deeply, holding the breath for a moment before letting it out in a rush.

"I don't think you think that," he said carefully, answering the silence. Her hand darted up to where his rested beneath her chin, grabbing his palm with a sudden urgency.

"I don't," she said quickly. "I don't think that. I don't think that at all."

"I never thought you did," Booth said, shifting forward onto his knees and leaning in towards Brennan. He went ninety percent, waiting for her to close the gap the other ten percent of the way. She released his hand, reaching her fingers out and touching the side of his face. It was surprisingly soft for such a hard man, and she realized she had never before touched his face. His hands, his arms, his shoulders, his back. But never his face.

Then she closed the gap. Their lips touched, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. That electric feeling crackled through her like static, every place his fingers rested on her skin burning in a wonderful way.

The day after Halloween, they returned to Kimball. They entered Sadie's diner hand in hand, taking the same booth seat in the back of the restaurant as before. She came out of the back kitchen with the same grumpy face, and lit up when she saw the two of them seated together.

"Well fancy seein' y'all here!" Sadie called out, clapping Booth on the shoulder and touching Brennan's arm lightly with her hand. "Y'all know y'all's local heroes 'round these parts now, don't ya?"

"Heroes?" Brennan asked. Sadie nodded, walking to the wall and pulling down a framed photograph. It was Justine's graduation photo, her silk cap resting slightly off-kilter atop her head, her smile broad. She handed it to Booth, who looked down at the picture with a sad smile.

"Y'all saved Pete a lotta grief," Sadie said quietly. "He done the right thing, and so did y'all. Sometimes pure law ain't what it's all about, it's about doin' the right thing. Folks from the city don't usually get that, but you do. That makes you heroes to us."

"We appreciate it," Booth said, handing the picture back to Sadie. "Really, we do. But Pete's the hero. He's the hero in my book, anyway." He looked across the table to Brennan, who smiled.

"Mine too," she said, nodding. "He saved my life."

"He's a good man," Sadie said. "A little cracked, but a good man. And so are you, Agent Booth. I knew that the moment I met you. A good man. Now, what can I get y'all to drink?"

"I'll have… a coke," Booth said, after thinking for a moment. Sadie smiled.

"What kind?" she asked.

"Sprite," Booth replied like a pro. Sadie laughed, the rich sound filling the room, and Booth and Brennan couldn't help but laugh with her.

* * *

**A/N:** And there it is. :) I really hope you guys liked the ending... I couldn't get it to write right (yes, Melissa, I do mean _write right_!) but I think I finally made it work out the way I wanted it to.

Now, since this fic has officially come to a close, I wanted to give credit where credit is due. You might (or might not) have noticed that each chapter title is a snippet of lyrics from a different song. If you did notice, good for you, we probably have similar tastes in music. :) If you didn't notice, that's okay, they were kind of obscure parts of songs for the most part. But I wanted to credit each of those songs individually, which is what I will do now.

In the order of song, then artist:

Chapter 1: Face Down, The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus  
Chapter 2: Mothers of the Disappeared, U2  
Chapter 3: Perfect, Army of Me  
Chapter 4: I Miss You, Blink 182  
Chapter 5: The Scientist, Coldplay  
Chapter 6: Lean on Me, Kirk Franklin  
Chapter 7: Invisible, Clay Aiken  
Chapter 8: And The Hero Will Drown, Story of the Year  
Chapter 9: Until the Day I Die, Story of the Year  
Chapter 10: Stars, Switchfoot

Each of these songs is incredible, and belongs 100 percent to their respective owner. I mean no copyright infringement whatsoever, hence crediting each one of them individually. And if you're looking for some new music to check out, definitely take a listen to any of the above.

With that said, thanks again for being such awesome, loyal readers. I appreciate each and every single one of your reviews! So go on, for old time's sake... leave a review and let me know what you think. :)


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